A Piece of Cake
by Riverdancer17
Summary: CHANGED MY PENNAME BUT IT'S STILL ME! Still the same story, but now becoming a continuing sick fic with mildly slashy undertones. Chapter 42: Can you trust someone on the strength of a telephone call? If that trust hurts the one you're with, should you?
1. Chapter 1

**AN: hello lovely peoples! I'm back, isn't that exciting? In truth, it's really hot in Guildford and I'm supposed to be study and while the structure of the kidney appears to not be able to hold my attention, fanfiction does, so you lovely lot are getting an update from Lily aren't you lucky? (is that too many L words?) what can I say? Heat turns me into a little bit of a ditz. Anyway this story is about John's accident that gave him his infamous shoulder wound and I have to admit that not only the title but at least 20% of the literary workings belong to one Mr Roald Dahl. I really do love his story 'A Piece of Cake' and have therefore decided to honour that by shamelessly ripping it off in fanfiction. Although the original story does make me a little concerned for my own future (I have decided to join the RAF after med school) I think we can all feel safe when we remember that we are no longer in a war where thousands of young men have to defend our skies in planes essentially made out of balsawood and canvas, don't you all feel better? I apologise profusely for the horrendously long and tortuous AN. If you don't understand any of the phrases used Pm me, if you don't understand the whole thing I'm not surprised.**

I had just finished patching up one of the Blenheim boys when the call came. He was a curious patient, I remember that much. A piece of shrapnel had embedded itself in his leg, and it took me nearly an hour to dig it out, but through all that time, he never cried out once. Not one time did a sound pass that boys lips, even though silent tears dripped from his chin and nose throughout the operation. I remember before I started I had said to him 'don't worry I do this all the time, it's a piece of cake!' I suppose that was a lie because it was a lot deeper than I thought but by the time I'd worked that out it was too late to go back and sedate him.

Anyway, when I was finished I remember Jenny coming up behind me, pink from the blistering sun.

'Bomber boys upset?' She asked me, grinning.

'Not upset exactly.' I shot back

'Well, browned off.'

'No, just tired.' They were having to go up too often and not enough replacements were coming through to replenish their diminishing numbers.

Jenny flashed her teeth at me. 'Doesn't bother me mate, I'm army. Let the Raffer sort themselves out.'

I was called out then to go on a search and rescue mission. After that I can remember changing into my PPE gear and I can remember signing a form that someone shoved under my nose. Then there's a little gap of not-remembering before some little bit of my brain informs me that we'd gone up in a Chinook, with me, a st John ambulance nurse, the pilot and a sniper leaning haphazardly out of the cabin door. For some reason Jenny had gone up behind us in a harrier Jump-jet and then the picture returns in my memory and I remember an RAF flight-sergeant handing me into the cabin and telling me to be careful and me, perhaps a little arrogantly, replying

'I've done this thousands of times, Piece of cake!'

I then remember him smiling like he knew and repeating his warning.

I can remember flying over a few bombed out villages, I can remember the pilot shouting meaningless coordinates into his mouthpiece, I remember watching with my heart in my mouth as the sniper pivoted nearly out of the fuselage and the nurse grabbing his harness and then I remember an almighty bang. After that everything is confused, I remember pain and shouting and screaming and something crackling unpleasantly through my headset. After that, there seems to be quite a long gap of not remembering anything at all.

I seem to have woken up, because I recall hearing a bang and a whoosh and realising that it must be the starboard petrol tank going up. Fortunately it didn't seem like it was going to bother me very much, because all I wanted to do was go quietly off to sleep. Unfortunately, there was a horrible smell hanging around, burnt rubber and cordite and something else.

Obviously I now realise what 'something else' was, but I try not to think about it because out of the three people in that Chinook I only ever saw the sniper again, and he was in a pretty bad state when I did.

Anyway, at that point my brain seems to have had another little black out before waking up to a stuttered order from itself to my body;

'The – plane – is – on –fire. Get - out. Repeat. Get - out.' And I, feeling this to be entirely reasonable, apparently began wriggling around and trying to get out before something seems to have made sent a message back up

'We can't get out. What's stopping us?' it took quite a long time for my brain to do anything about that, so I sat there quite happily and waited, before the thought arrived in my brain

'Down here, there is a great hotness. What should we do about this? Signed, feet.'

Finally the message from the brain seemed to get through and I remember feeling quite excited as it really was getting hot around my feet, and besides which my shoulder had started to hurt.

'Your – straps – you – fucking - wanker. Un – do – your - straps. Do – you – want – to – get - burnt?' apparently deciding I didn't, I fumbled around a bit and then remembered that I needed to press a clip to release the straps. I did so and pitched head first into the sand. Something still wanted me to go to sleep but it was still hot all around and besides, that horrible smell was still lingering, so I flailed about a bit before managing to get to my hands and knees and crawl a short distance from the burning helicopter.

It was around then that I suddenly realised something hot and sticky was running down my arm and if I stayed still for any length of time the sand underneath that hand started to get wet quite quickly, whilst pondering what that meant I realised that both my shoulder and face really, really hurt and apparently the way my body wanted me to respond to this was by opening my mouth and screaming as long and as loud as I could. Luckily, after I had finished screaming (mainly due to a lack of oxygen) I heard the most wonderful sound I have ever heard ever.

'John?' that was Jenny's voice coming towards me! 'Christ John! I saw the flames and landed quick as I could, are you alright?'

'Jenny, my face hurts; can you see anything wrong with it?'

'What do you mean it hurts?'

'I can't feel my nose when I touch my face. And I can't move my arm, that's why I was screaming see.'

'John don't touch your face! You're a doctor for chrissake!' she cried evasively

'Jenny, what's wrong with my nose?'

I heard her striking a match and a sharp hiss as she drew in a breath.

'Um, well, It doesn't actually seem to be there very much.' She said sounding faintly interested.

'Oh?'

She hummed in agreement; sounding slightly strangled 'Neither does your shoulder actually.' I heard her ripping something and felt a pressure on my shoulder. I was just pleasantly starting to drift off when something rather important occurred to me.

'Jenny?'

'Hmm? What?'

'Am I going to die?'

'I don't know John, how do you feel?'

I thought about this for a few moments, in my condition this posed a genuine brainteaser.

'Hot.'

I heard her scuffling around and fumbling under my chin before the pressure of my helmet disappeared.

'That better?'

'Yes. Thank you.'

Then she said she was going back to the harrier because she carried a phial of morphia in the first aid kit. About fifteen minutes later she returned saying she couldn't find the harrier in the dark and we'd have to sit tight til morning. I remember her sitting down next to me and pulling off her flight jacket to cover me before again, something quite important occurred to me.

'Jenny, I can't see.' I remember thinking it was odd that my words were so slurred, I hadn't had a drink in ages.

'Neither can I John. It's dark.' She sounded pretty ratty but I think she was just worried about getting help.

'No, I mean I really can't see. I think something's wrong.'

I heard her strike a match and felt the heat as she put it close to my face.

'Can you see that?' she asked.

'See what?'

Then there was silence and I heard her get closer before she went 'Ah.' Very quietly.

'Just lie down John, you'll feel better in the morning.' She squeezed my hand and rolled me on my good side. I was spewing a lot of blood and because of the pain in my shoulder I remember starting to cry which didn't help, but every time I did it, Jenny would light a match and rub my back, once she gave me a cigarette, but it got wet and it tasted salty and I didn't want it anyway. Every so often she would giggle slightly hysterically and say

'I've never seen a man without a nose before.' Sounding a bit dazed.

I don't know how long I lay there for, but I do remember feeling the sand around me getting wetter and wetter and my uniform getting heavier and Jenny replacing what she was pressing on my shoulder with every couple of minutes while praying quietly. I also remember thinking 'I could die here' and telling Jenny that she had to make sure my sister got my tin of cough sweets because she always got a sore throat when she was drunk. I remember hearing someone approach and asking Jenny if we were going to be shot but she ignored me. I heard a bit of murmuring and then a posh voice asking if we were the Taliban before Jenny told the owner of the voice that he was a fucking idiot, did we look like the Taliban? And I shouted my address in Lewisham at him to help him understand before Jenny told me quite nicely that she knew I was trying to help but would I shut up please? Then there's a little bit of not remember, before the feeling of being lifted onto a stretcher and the sharp prick of a needle, and all the while the lovely feeling that Jenny was around doing helpful things and generally being wonderful, before a female voice said

'Alright then, don't fight it. Just go nicely off to sleep.' Then the roar of an engine, and blackness.

**AN: I suppose that's it. I can do another chapter on John's delirium and concussion and stuff but if you guys al review and go 'NOOOOOOOO, never darken our doorstep with this rubbish again' then I won't post it but read and review because it stops me doing so much coursework I forget to sleep (I did that once) so, good, bad, dreadful, cat just died and you wanna talk, REVIEW PEOPLE! Loveses,**

**Lily x**


	2. Chapter 2

**AN: first of all I would like to say thank you to my sole reviewer, sneakysnakes, I have taken into account your suggestions making this possibly the only ever oneshot with three (or more) chapters. I have a big exam tomorrow so probably no updates, but hey, you're getting this today aren't you? I essentially wrote this on the bus after a friend of mine rang me from the hospital and I was like :o inspiration! Please, please please review this guys**

**Lily x**

The next thing I remember is being dragged from the rather pleasant drug addled dreams that morphine brings, by someone pushing on my bad shoulder. I opened my eyes. Obviously, since I couldn't see anything I'd made a mistake and in fact my eyes were not open, so I tried again. I remember being quite disappointed to learn that I, in fact, couldn't open my eyes. Luckily, the bloke who'd apparently woken me up had stayed in the room and was now pulling painfully at my arm and talking to himself. I bit back the string of expletives this latest torture had provoked and choked out

'Who the bloody hell are you?' apparently strong medication makes me powerfully eloquent.

'Oh.' He said snatching his hands away from my arm 'I thought you were still out of it.'

'You shook my shoulders.'

'Yes, but you didn't respond!'

'well, who are you anyway?'

'I'm your Doctor. My name is Lt. Philip…' and he said something that sounded like chummly-cook. I later found out that it was spelt 'Chumfanleigh-coke' which seems like an upper-class way of complicating something that doesn't need to be complicated. I say upper class because, had he not bled out into the Afghani sand six months later aged just twenty five, my doctor would have been none other than the Lord Earl of Leicester.

But anyway, I was pissed off at having been pulled from a very nice sleep for no good reason other than my Doctor's self-importance and even more so that he was obviously the newbie so I was a bit more sharp than intended.

'And what, pray, is wrong with my eyes Doctor?'

'Oh, we've just put a bit of padding on those to stop anything happening to them.'

'Like what?'

'oh nothing, nothing…' he said sounding flustered.

'Lieutenant, you do know I was a doctor don't you?'

There was a pause and some riffling of paper before he coughed

'I apologise, Captain.'

'Good. Now. What's wrong with my eyes?'

He sighed 'you appear to have collided with something face first, the force pushed your nasal bones along with some… other stuff into the back of your skull. Bone and debris from the crash appears to have scratched up your corneas quite badly, but not too deep. You went into emergency surgery at 3 this morning and came out at 9 also this morning. Just for a bit of perspective it's now 10 at night.'

'Six hours?'

He coughed again and I heard him shuffle about before continuing quietly 'Your face was not the priority. We removed two bullets from your shoulder, one from a Taliban gun, the other from a British. Your shoulder joint was completely shot away, along with a lot of bone. That was the Afghan bullet, we think you would have been alright if it was just that but…'

'But what?'

'They think the sniper's gun went off in the crash. A bullet hit you in the shoulder and grazed the sub-clavicle artery. You're lucky not to be dead but as it is, you flat lined twice and seizured… well it's a lot. You've lost nearly four pints of blood.'

I sat in silence, stunned. Last night I had never thought about how much blood I was losing but the memory of Jenny replacing the cloths on my back every 2 minutes proved it. I had never seriously thought that I would come this close to dying. Worse I couldn't believe how well this young surgeon was taking it.

'I'm sorry you had to see that.' I whispered.

'all part of the job, sir.' His self-confidence was gone and he seemed slightly unsure now. I remember hearing him walk quietly out before turning and addressing me shakily

'You said you **were **a doctor sir…'

I smiled ruefully 'You've just read the symptoms Doctor. What's your diagnosis?'

A few days later I was wallowing in my own misery (that happened quite a lot) when I heard two people enter my room. One of these was a plastic surgeon that my own Doctor seemed highly in awe of. From what I'd heard about him he was a pretentious dick but each to their own. The other one was a nurse who squealed a lot and made my head ache about once an hour. The well-regarded doctor burst in and announced

'I'm going to see about taking it out of the back of your head.'

Which is the weirdest greeting anyone has ever given me including 'I said can you get me a pen?' Over the past five days I had been into theatre 7 times, met 3 different anaesthetists, none of whom I liked and fallen in love with just about every nurse in the damn place, all of which was making me feel rather woozy, hence my reply;

'Aren't you going to take me to dinner first?'

He laughed once as if he was doing me a favour and got on with the examination. After he had poked my sore face about fifteen times, removed my eye pads and interrogated me about my holiday the previous year, he straightened up and said

'I am going to model your new nose on Martin Freeman. What do you think of him nurse?'

Typically, the girl squealed and replied

'Oh he's Gorgeous, sir!' painfully enthusiastic at the idea.

'There you see!' said the surgeon sounding proud of himself 'and you, Captain, shall have his Gorgeous nose! The girls'll be queuing up to get at your nose!'

Back in the hospital under the pleasant wooziness of repeated sedation that sounded like very exciting news. Sitting here in London it becomes clear that the man was a fucking fruit bat. I think it was the bombing.

That's really all I remember about the accident until I was honourably discharged and sent home, apart from one incident that will always stick in my memory. Just before I was taken in for the twelfth round of surgery, I remember chatting to the perky American duty nurse as she prepared the anaesthetist's equipment, and what she was talking about was the surgeon who was going to perform the operation, to remove a fragment of splintered bone and some infected tissue from part of my shoulder.

'I mean he really is wonderful.' She gushed 'Just last week he saved a poor man's leg when all the other doctors said there was no use they'd have to amputate!' she smiled at me widely, and the pads on my eyes having been taken off the previous day I could see her fairly clearly. Although I remember wishing at the time that I couldn't. 'But don't worry, he does this sorta thing all the time, it's a piece of cake!' I groaned as they strapped the mask on my face and was not surprised later when they told me it was unsuccessful.

**AN: again here's the part where I beg for reviews. Literally I don't care if fifty of you tell me to go and drown myself just review! And tell me if you want more.**

**Lily x**


	3. Chapter 3

**AN: Hello! Thank you to **sneakysnakes** and **socalrose** for your reviews,**

Socalrose**: haha, thanks! I hate exams so much…**

Sneakysnakes**: awwwwww ok. No drowning.**

**Anyways, now comes the pathetic bit. To be honest with you guys, I really never expected this story to go beyond one shot stage and every time people review going MORE, I have a mini heart attack, and I want my stories to be the best for you guys, I really do! So, if ya got any ideas, rack 'em up! Seriously, I'll take anything, cos I genuinely trust you guys, so PM or review and not only will I try to use your ideas, I'll also give you a dedication in the AN of the chapter! Now that's generous. Read it and lemme know what you think**

**Lily x**

'John? John!'

'Hmmmm?'

'Bloody hell, are you alright mate?'

'Stand back, give him some air.'

Oh fuck. It'd happened again, and at a crime scene how embarrassing…

Surprisingly the first face that swam into view was Sherlock's, even more surprisingly; it was wearing a look of concern. I remember fervently wishing I had a camera and being rather touched at the same time.

'It's alright, Sherlock, it happens…'

'John, you are contaminating a crime scene!'

Hm. Not quite so touching.

'Sherlock, I need…'

'John, get up, your head-blood is going on the floor. Anderson is going to do his nut when he sees.' Sherlock was hissing through clenched teeth.

'Sherlock, give the man a chance! Are you alright, John? Do you want an ambulance?'

'No he does not want a bloody ambulance, Lestrade, stop being an idiot it's just a bit of a bash!'

'Sherlock, I…' the situation was becoming pretty dire now and if someone didn't pay attention soon I was going to contaminate Anderson's crime scene further. I was fairly grateful to find out that Sherlock's full attention was back on me.

'John are you still going to be able to look at the body? You know the massive head traum.. wait, where are you…?'

I have absolutely no idea what happened for the next couple of minutes, but I remember praying for death at two or three second intervals, before Sherlock sauntered out the door and watched me miserably spit a bottle of water into the gutter.

'So. The body?'

'No Sherlock.'

'Hm. Worth a try.'

I spat contemptuously into the street.

'They're getting worse.'

'What are getting worse?' I snapped, again expressing my death wish to the world in general.

'Your blackouts.'

'What blacko…'

'Oh please, John, don't even try to lie to me, you know who I am it doesn't work. What's going on, why don't you go to the hospital?'

I snorted derisively 'They wouldn't do anything. There do tend to be a few side effects when you get your face temporarily implanted onto the back of your head.'

Sherlock smirked 'still…'

'Still what Sherlock? I know what it is, I know what's causing it, I don't want to hear by how long it has shortened my life or how getting your face smashed in affects your cholesterol!'

Even I was impressed with that little outburst. But it was true, I had been having blackouts since about six months after my last operation and they had lost me a total of three jobs and my life insurance plan. I'd been doing my best to hide them from everybody but clearly the game was up and since I lived with the world's only consulting detective I really had no right to be surprised.

'John, insulting your colleagues? How unprofessional!'

I scowled 'One word Sherlock. Anderson.'

He ignored that, thank god as I had no desire to have my entire sexual history read off the soles of my shoes or whatever it was that he'd managed to do it off last time I insulted him at a crime scene.

'John, I am now asking you as a friend, please go to the hospital.'

'Sherlock, I have told you, I'm not going to…'

'Because you are dripping blood on the floor and you are not coming back in here in that state.' He was smirking again. Bastard.

'oh fine, I'll go.' I grumbled.

'Good. I'll meet you at the flat at six.'

'So soon?' I asked mockingly.

He snorted and turned away 'John, you could solve this one. If you were blindfolded. And had no arms.'

I think this little incident sticks with me because it was the first time Sherlock had ever made any kind of attempt at caring about anything but work and his cigarettes. Obviously, he had to do it in typical Sherlock style and get one over on me but it was still a small victory on my part that he hadn't insisted I stay and help him whilst letting me slowly bleed out. Of course, it could be because of what happened next.

In the A and E department at UCLH, I am fairly certain they watch out for anyone who looks in pain or seriously ill, before giving them the perkiest and most happy-to-help medical student they can find, just to add their own personal flavour to the patient's personal circle of hell. Such was the case with me.

I remember that she introduced herself as Bindi and gave me a mini monologue about how she'd been a hippy child and never gone to school but then aged sixteen, she'd disappointed her family by buying a suit, dying her hair brown and enrolling in nursing college before going on to train as a doctor and all the while making slow, even stitches in my scalp. There's a gap of not really remembering a lot around now and I'm not sure if it's because of the examination or the conversation but I'm pretty sure that they were equally painful, but there is one chirpily spoken little observation that I remember.

Bindi had just finished stitching the wound, and her supervisor had come over to check before pronouncing the stitching sound and whispering to me that he'd get me a couple of aspirin in a minute, when Bindi snapped off her gloves, blew a bubble in her gum, turned to me and said

'See! I told you didn't I! Piece of cake!'

In my desperation to get out of there and find the nice, fully qualified doctor with my pain killers I just smiled desperately, garbled my thanks and slammed the door behind me. It was only on the cab ride home, when the pounding along my wound had started to fade a little that I realised the full significance of her words.

Sure enough, over the next two weeks, I reached the point where I was blacking out nearly every day, Sherlock had banned me from coming on cases and I had an anxious Lestrade and an Irate Mrs Hudson begging me to go back to the hospital. I have no memory of what followed, but Sherlock tells me that I collapsed in the shower and he called an ambulance after getting worried that I'd been in there longer than my standard (apparently 6.4 minutes). On arrival in hospital, my head wound was found to be severely infected and I was in the late stages of shock. After investigative surgery, they also found that a small piece of bone was lodged in my frontal lobe, causing the blackouts after the accident.

Neither do I remember waking up after the eighteenth bout of surgery in my life and finding Sherlock sitting next to me, apparently having blamed himself for not noticing I had an infection ('the signs were all there John! How could I have been so blind…?') and, according to Mrs Hudson, I hugged him around the waist and told him he needed to promise me two things.

'What John?'

'One, don't let the spiders eat me.' (I refute that I ever said that and particularly not 'slurring like a sleepy toddler') ' and two, never never never never bring Mycroft to the hospital while I'm in here.'

'Done and definitely done john. May I ask why?'

'Whenever there's a piece of cake around my life goes badly.'

**AN: whilst I'm not entirely happy with this chapter, I do quite like the cake related quip in the last line. Review peeps!**

**Lily x**


	4. Chapter 4

**AN: hey guys! Since nobody expressly told me whether they wanted another chapter up, I am posting this with a due sense of timidity and dread. I've been away for four days and have the most horrendous day of exams tomorrow, so if more is required; it'll probably not be until next week. Or possibly Thursday. But I had to get this chapter up cos I wanted to share with you the EXCITEMENT of me at the moment. For those of you familiar with Britain you will know what I mean when I say I am irrevocably excited because I got INVITED by PRINCE CHARLES to go to BUCKINGHAM PALACE for THE DIAMOND JUBILEE CONCERT on Monday. For those of you unfamiliar with any of the above google it and you'll understand. For those of you that watched, did you see me? Purple polo shirt, ponytail, slightly off centre of the stage in the standing bit, probably standing in a group of people also wearing purple polo shirts. Anyways, here's the chapter, I decided to make Sherlock do a stupid thing cos we all know he would. Oh and you know that little thing out there that says no slash? Yeah, quite possibly can't say that anymore. Oh and this has quite a graphic description of a nasty injury, so maybe don't read if you're horrendously squeamish.**

I genuinely would never have expected it. Never. I mean, I'm usually the clumsy one! He's such a silly sod. I doubt he'd thank me for that but he is.

We'd been chasing a suspect over an hour when Sherlock had suddenly decided that running over the rooftops would be easier, in this densely populated area of town, gaps between buildings where few and far between, and even if we did run up against any, virtue of architecture and time would generally have kept us safe.

After legging it across a government building at Grosvenor place, (purely to spite Mycroft I have no doubt), our quarry disappeared up an alley and Sherlock, self-confident dickhead that he is yelled,

'Come on John! Jump!'

I, my breath now coming in screaming pants, yelled back 'Sherlock, it's too high, we'll never make it!'

He sneered, 'Oh fine, I'll do it. Piece of cake!' ah, the fatal words had been spoken and I dear reader, could only close my eyes as I slid to a halt and wonder what was to happen next.

Predictably, he too skidded to a halt and then pitched quite gracefully really, over the edge and fell, catching a foot in the bars of the fire escape.

Commendably, he didn't shriek like a girl, although the suspect did as nine stone three of consulting detective landed on the back of his neck. Hmm, so much for deadly, highly trained assassins. The long string of rather creative swearwords that followed indicated that, not only was my friend alive, but he was also angry, usually indicating that someone was going to be spending a large amount of the rest of their life in a prison cell. Reacting accordingly, I slid down the fire escape and jogged over to the heap of Sherlock, which was moaning quietly.

'Sherlock?' I asked cautiously. A pale face appeared from the tangle of black coat and Cuban assassin.

'John.' It panted 'My leg…' he tried to sit up, alarming me slightly.

'No, Sherlock, don't move! I'm just going to have a look…'

I managed to remove enough coat and suspect to be able to take a look at the injured leg. It definitely did not look leg shaped. I grimaced but only slightly.

'Ok, Sherlock, I'm just going to..'

He yelped slightly and his face went pale green as he rasped 'John, Hurts!'

'Yes thank you Sherlock.' I said absently, sliding his pocket knife gently along the length of his trouser leg. He scowled and yelped again as I ripped the expensive fabric back.

His leg was a mess. One long gash ran smoothly from ankle to knee with the suspicious glitter of broken glass glinting along the edge, there was a broken bottle about a foot away. Oh good. Tetanus AND septicaemia…

Mostly, what drew the eye was just above the ankle. Sherlock's foot was at a right angle to the rest of his leg and while most of the long bone was in its proper place, the whole of his left ankle seemed to have been pushed to the right which indicated one if not two displaced fractured. It would have been fascinating, had I not had Sherlock doing his best not to make a sound but keening quietly through clenched teeth and going a pale grey hue. He grabbed my lower arm as I prodded at the smashed joint and gasped,

'What's wrong with it John?'

'Ummm…' I said watching the flesh around his ankle go a rather pretty shade of purple tinged with black. It'd even go with his suit, I remember thinking.

'John?'

I hurriedly threw his coat over the injury and plastered a smile onto my face.

'I can honestly say I don't know.' I lied. I knew from past experience that, if I told Sherlock the full extent of his injury he would go into hysterics and I'd have to have another 'conversation' with Mycroft about why I was causing his baby brother 'undue distress' as if he was a pet hamster or something.

'You don't know?' he asked looking slightly confused.

'No. does it hurt anywhere else?' I asked quickly.

'No. The suspect broke my fall.' I stared for a few seconds and turned away, before I felt the pressure increase on my wrist. Sherlock was staring up the alley eyes fixed on the opening. The suspect was limping painfully towards freedom.

I didn't think. Something kicked in; I knew that if I let this man go, he'd cause more chaos; more people would die, including probably my friend. I didn't think. I just pulled out my browning and shot the fucker in the knee. There was silence for a moment except the hired killer's moans and a nasty squelching sound as his injured knee hit the floor.

'Nice shit.' Sherlock observed coolly. 'Dig the bullet out.'

'What?' I asked, dazed.

He smirked again, wincing slightly 'Well, we can't say he fell onto that bottle if he's got a bullet in his knee.

About five minutes later, Lestrade and his team turned apparently having heard the sound of gunfire and made the connection between the afore mentioned and Sherlock. Lestrade climbed out of the squad car and sauntered into the alley.

'Jesus Christ!' he muttered kicking the bloodied splinters of glass.

'Is not currently present.' Snarled a voice from my shoulder.

Sherlock had buried his head there a couple of minutes ago and had a bone-crunching grip on my wrist.

'An ambulance, if you would be so good, Lestrade.' He said, somehow managing to sound imperious in spite of the hot tears that had been soaking into my jacket since we'd been sat like that. Lestrade looked at me and I nodded urgently. He despatched an eager looking constable to radio for an ambulance and looked down.

'What's this then?' he asked, poking the moaning suspect with his toe.

'That is the lead implementer in the Wilson case. If he is wearing black jeans with clay on the hem, arrest him.' He moaned slightly.

I squeezed his hand 'Five minutes Sherlock. Just hold on.'

An hour later, I was sat in a clinically white waiting room, being slowly talked to death by a middle aged woman with warts. After covering every topic from Boris Johnson, the Jubilee Concert and her daughter's new baby and shortly before I made my escape to the men's bathroom, a nurse came out and called

'Holmes?'

At which point Mycroft strode into A and E, pushed past her and shot me the sort of look most people reserve for puppy drowners. Only to return rather slower a few moments later, with his nose severely out of joint.

'Sherlock has asked to see you Doctor Watson.' He turned away and then turned back, looking even more like he'd drunk a pint of vinegar 'And may I take this opportunity to congratulate the both of you? I think my brother will make you very happy.' He turned away and strode purposefully down the corridor. Entirely bemused, I sprinted down the corridor and found Sherlock haranguing some poor nurse about his dose of painkillers. I took a deep breath

''retogetheranswermeSherlock!'

Dead silence

'One more time please.'

I breathed in slowly 'Why does Mycroft think we're together?'

He shrugged 'I wanted you in, I wanted him out.' He blew up through his fringe. 'it seemed the simplest solution at the time.'

'Oh. Right.' I have no idea why I felt slightly disappointed.

'If it's not acceptable I can tell the nurse…' he offered

'No, no… it's not worth the bother.'

He studied me for a moment. 'John I will need you to bring me a few things since they insist on pointlessly keeping me here. As you will certainly not get it right, I have written a list.'

I snatched it and glanced over it sulkily. 'Sherlock… I can't bring a skull into hospital.'

He grinned wolfishly. 'Of course you can. Piece of cake!'

**AN: more? Less? Go and shoot yourself? Review! I'm still on the lookout for ideas so if ya got any let me know!**


	5. Chapter 5

**AN: hello! 'Tis I, once again I'd like to say thank you to my sole reviewer Sneakysnakes and to the guys that have favourite or alerted this story. It's probably going to take a little bit of a U-turn, i.e. less about John's original injury, more of a kind of sick fic, mildly slashy fluffy heap of rubbish but if you guys like it, hey, who am I to judge? Anyway review if you have any injuries you'd like our boys to get, happy trails!**

**Lily x**

'You're an idiot you know that don't you? A bloody idiot!'

'Yes thank you, I had…'

'You're a bloody idiot!'

'Yes, you did tell me that. Thank you so much for your concern.'

I slammed the lid of the first aid kit shut on Sherlock's fingers, grabbed his collar and dragged him down the corridor.

'Sherlock. What did I tell you about people?'

He sneered at me down the length of his nose 'I know John but in this circumstance I really don't…'

'Sherlock!'

He ground his teeth and ran a hand through his hair 'fine, Fine!' he snapped 'Let's get this over with and leave the idiot in peace.' He limped into Lestrade's office and held out his hand.

'Thank you Lestrade. You are an excellent policeman and your efforts where very nearly quite good this time.' I leant up against the door and rolled my eyes. 'In fact I would go so far as to say, you are not a dreadful detective overall.' I nodded my head when Lestrade caught my eye 'And the pattern of blood from your nose on that concrete wall was really quite pretty.' Facepalm.

'Please don't hit him.' I thought 'I really cannot deal with two broken noses without my proper kit.' I nervously lifted my head to see Lestrade looking wearily at Sherlock

'That's fine Sherlock, I…'

'Although I genuinely cannot forgive you for letting the monkey onto crime scenes…' I sunk my head into my hands again, there was a dull smack and I raised my eyes to see Anderson wringing his right hand, Sherlock staggering backwards clutching his face and Lestrade screaming bloody murder about how Anderson was an officer of the law and he'd put him on a charge if he ever did that again. And the only thing I could think of to say was,

'If you've broken his nose, I'll bloody kill you Anderson.'

The circumstances behind this rather strange dialogue are a lot more humble than most people would believe.

We had been on a case of course – what else? - A man and his dog had been shot and laid side by side. Sherlock was ranting about his deductions and shouting at Lestrade that OF COURSE the man was Irish, had been in the Irish Guards and his dog was an Irish wolfhound so the killer we were looking for was English and had served as a police officer in northern Ireland. But, predictably, since he was limping about on his crutches and looking more like a giant spider than ever it was considerably harder than usual to take him seriously.

Lestrade was furiously taking notes and trying hard not to giggle but even he looked dubious at this latest.

'Are you sure?'

If looks could kill, Lestrade would have been sprawled on the hall carpet foaming at the mouth.

'Yes, I am sure! The dog is obviously an Irish Wolfhound.' He glanced up 'The coat man, look at the coat! He's wearing a st Brigid's cross meal around his throat, in a style particular to the town of Ballyclare and, like our John, he still holds on to his regimental pennant, look it's hanging above the door, pray what does it show Lestrade? Nice and loud now, so everyone can hear.'

Lestrade looked and grudgingly told Sherlock that it contained the Gold leafed Shamrock of the Irish Guards. After Sherlock had decided he had been sufficiently smug he told Lestrade where he could find his killer and I managed to drag him out of the house before he got any more injuries. Unfortunately, Sherlock once again gained the upper hand and dragged me in the opposite direction to the taxi rank. My heart sinking, I said

'I take it we're not going home?'

'No.' I was told shortly. I observed with some annoyance that, even on crutches Sherlock could run twice as fast as me.

'So where are we going?'

'To the house of Mr Jonathan Winstanley-Porter.' When it seemed that an explanation regarding who the hell Mr Jonathan Winstanley-Porter was, I decided it was probably better not to ask, since I would almost certainly have gotten a scathing reply.

'So how do you know that this Mr Winstanley-Porter is the killer?'

Sherlock stopped and, with some difficulty, extracted a small book and threw it at me.

'You said he'd been dead for about 48 hours?' I nodded wondering what that had to with the little book.

'Look at the afternoon of the twelfth.'

I flipped through the book, now becoming apparent that it was diary, to said afternoon. Scrawled across the slot was '2:00pm Commander Winstanley.'

'So, you think he's the killer?'

'If he's not and he kept his appointment, he'll have seen something. But with a name like 'Commander Winstanley' and taking into account my previous deductions, I think we can assume the worst.'

Shortly after, we reached a small council building with the distinctive pebble-dashing along the outside. Sherlock banged loudly on the door with his crutch and, when it brought no reply, limped with surprising speed around the side of the house, hit the cheaply framed window in exactly the right place and gotten through the window, crutches or no. I remember that, when I tried to follow with the same grace and speed, I fell noisily into a pile of magazines. Sherlock swung round and rolled his eyes.

'Thank you John.' He mumbled 'if he didn't already know we were here he does now.'

At that exact moment, we heard a creak from the hall. A voice travelling slowly up the hall said

'We should be able to get him soon, it's not hard, piece of cake!'

We both froze. Sherlock recovered first and dragged me behind the room's chipboard door.

'What are we… ?'

'Shhhhhh!' he hissed. I watched, heart in my mouth as the door to the room slowly creaked open, suddenly Sherlock lunged forward, raised his crutch and smacked whoever it was behind the door. I heard a man's scream and yelled 'Sherlock, what've you done.'

Sherlock was staring wide eyed at the figure on the floor as it lay there groaning, I rounded the corner and gaped at the bleeding man. 'Oh my God, Sherlock, you've killed Lestrade!' I giggled. Apparently having gotten over the shock, Sherlock's face twisted into a snarl of rage

'You idiot Lestrade, what were you thinking?'

I spluttered, a mixture between laughter and rage. 'Sherlock, you've just broken his nose! Don't shout at him!'

'Oh you can fix a broken nose like nothing on earth but can you find as suspect in the middle of London? Honestly Lestrade, you have spoiled everything!' he swept imperiously out of the room, as I and Lestrade stared after him.

**AN: I do not like that ending… review and tell me what you think. If you don't get the Irish reference google 'the battle of Offram, 1791'.**


	6. Chapter 6

**AN: ok so I want to say thank you again to my Sole reviewer, Alicia. It's nice to hear from people and again, if you have any prompts don't hesitate to click the little grey , hehe that was a comment from my guinea pig. He also enjoys Sherlock. Especially since that's his name. yes I am insane. Anyway enjoy!**

'John! Look out!' I heard Sherlock shout. Yet again, we were chasing a suspect across London, Sherlock's leg was better, he was off the crutches and the plaster had come off resulting in a burst of activity that flew in the face of his usually sloth like demeanour, and the idiot had run into the traffic on Tower Bridge and after dodging several cars I had managed to grab the sleeve of his jacket and hang on.

Unfortunately, in all the excitement of the chase I did not see the ten tonne lorry coming up from behind until it was far too late. The suspect struggled free in the nick of time but I had only managed to pull my arm back half way. The predictable happened and I was sent reeling and retching back against the barrier. The lorry screeched to a halt as Sherlock came limping speedily up. When he grabbed my shoulders with panic in his eyes I, foolishly perhaps, thought that he was concerned for me. Really, having lived with him for over a year, I had no right to be surprised when he said

'Did you get him?'

I gaped at him. He shook me slightly

'Well, John?'

I pulled away, massaging my wrist, 'Bastard' I muttered. At which point the lorry driver came jogging up and said

'Gosh, what a silly thing to do Sir.' Of course, our hard-driving, hard-drinking London lorry driver did not strut confidently into the middle of the road and tell me what a silly man I am, but most of what he in fact did say is unprintable and, despite nearly 20 years as a soldier, I can't spell it anyway, so 'silly man' it is. He then continued with

'You are an extraordinarily foolish man, I have absolutely no idea why you did that, you rogue, you want to get yourself down to a certified psychologist at once…' he continued vehemently

'John what's wrong with your wrist?' asked Sherlock, looking vaguely interested. I answered with a strangled whine and clutched his elbow. By this time the lorry driver had disappeared mumbling darkly about his insurance policy.

Now, Sherlock was looking really worried

'John? Do you want to go to hospital?' he asked anxiously, leading me away from the road. I nodded, gritting my teeth. He nodded gravely and took out a safety pin from his inside pocket. He gently pinned up one side of my jacket to make a sling for my bad arm and stepped back looking so proud I didn't have the heart to tell him he'd made it too loose and it wasn't in fact doing anything.

When we reached the crowds at the bottom of Tower Bridge, he took my hand and helped me though the crush of people to find a cab while biting his lip. It really would have been sweet, had he not spoiled it in true Sherlock fashion, by participating in a brief phone call with Lestrade and ceasing to look worried following the information that they'd found the suspect. When we eventually did find a cab, he helped me in and the delighted cabby took one look at my face before saying gleefully to Sherlock,

'Don't worry if 'e frows up mate, I always wanted to be an Ambulance driver.' Before happily doing an axel-screeching wheelie, causing Sherlock to grab me and throw us both flat. A few embarrassed and terrifying minutes later, I hastily wrote down the number of the London District Paramedic officer and threw it through the cab window, as Sherlock yanked me painfully through the doors at UCLH A and E.

About an hour later we were still sitting waiting and I, having had no pain relief, was just about ready to bite through my own arm. An increasingly agitated Sherlock was having a furious, if quiet, argument with the pretty blonde desk nurse, who, despite the fact that she was finding time to file her nails and flick idly through a copy of Hello! Was telling patients that they could not possibly see a doctor as they were all 'rushed off their feet.'

Contrary to Sherlock's, rather low, expectations she was also giving him some rather sharp and intelligent retorts.

'You do realise that your job title is Health Care Professional?' he seethed 'thus implying that an element of care is in fact included in the job?'

'And you do realise yours is patient?' she said smoothly, giving him a blistering look 'and I do advise that you are. Sit down Mr Holmes.'

Apparently driven to desperate measures Sherlock tensed his jaw, he snatched her magazine and silkily rattled off,

'You're a student here, putting yourself through nursing college by shagging one of the older consultants, ah I see he's asked you to marry him, shame about his divorce. How do I know? Well, from here I can see your shoes have Christian Louboutin's distinctive red leather sole, you can't have bought them yourself, you're a nurse besides which your tag says Student Nurse Louise Wilton, they could be a gift from your parents, but the rest of what you're wearing is fairly cheap. If they could afford to give you Louboutins you'd be dressed nicely all over, friends don't spend that kind of money and no boyfriend is going to buy you expensive shoes unless he's getting something out of it. A lover then, but you're wearing an engagement ring, so engaged. The fact that you're fully made up despite your tactile job and wearing his ring and the Louboutins suggests that he's here in the hospital. About fifteen minutes ago, you walked into the break room at the same time as an older man and came back out with your lipstick smudged, during the time leading up to that encounter and the additional half an hour I've been sitting here, no one else has walked in or out of that room. After you exited the break room, your fiancée exited and I saw that he was wearing a badge with the words 'Mr W. Jacobs' Doctors generally don't bother with 'Dr' post consultant level. How do I know about his divorce? You yourself on the phone told a friend that 'William's ex-wife is becoming unbearable'. I would be careful Miss Wilton. A man who marries his mistress creates a job vacancy, now for the last time, Can. I. See. A. Doctor?'

Throughout the exchange I and the rest of the waiting room had fallen into deadly silence. We had been thoroughly entertained as the young woman went an increasingly dark shade of puce as Sherlock rattled off his deductions. I suddenly realised that the debacle in front of me had made me forget the burning pain in my wrist, now however; it came back with a vengeance as the blotchy faced and rapid swelling teenager next to me dug me in the ribs and hissed 'Well, would you look at that. Dinner and a show.'

I smiled as Sherlock flopped down beside me and informed me that we would be seeing the doctor in the next few minutes. I glanced across at the pale and teary nurse frantically tapping at her iPhone and smiled through my pain.

'Thank you for deducing someone to tears for me Sherlock.'

He smirked back and said 'Piece of cake. Anyway isn't that what friends do?'

I moaned internally. Oh crap. He'd said the magic words. What else could go wrong?

**AN: sorry, a terribly rushed chapter. Oh well. I was absolutely sadistic to that poor nurse, although I occasionally wish I could Sherlock scan them to get them to tend to patients quicker. REVIEW!**


	7. Chapter 7

**AN: Thank you to reviewers, fantasybean and kunoichikitty any feedback at all is received well. May I remind you that I'm still looking for any ideas or burning questions you guys may have. And we've had over a thousand hits on this story this month so keep it up you lovely lot! Enjoy!**

**Lily x**

We'd been in that house for forty five minutes and found nothing. Absolutely nothing. Sherlock had lead us here after he'd found organic yoghurt or something under the fingernails of the body of a young woman, found in a suite at the Grosvenor hotel at Victoria Station with a bullet in the back of her neck, and while this quiet corner of upper middle class suburbia did not reek of the desperation and malice that may drive one to commit such a crime, but it certainly had its rougher areas. The house down the street only had one BMW. However, Sherlock informed me that this was in fact the house of her killer and also that the young woman had been shot after death. He'd done quite well with the graphic description actually. Only one of Lestrade's cadets had thrown up.

Meanwhile Sherlock was in his element and up until quite recently had been running gleefully around the house shouting deductions and generally getting in everyone's way, but somehow managing to do so in a way that was ineffably brilliant and slightly cool, meaning that not only was he in your way, he'd now pissed you off for being such a smooth git. Now however, he was gleefully engaging in a shouting match with Anderson while a whey faced Lestrade tried desperately to keep the peace. I was engaged in rifling through the cupboards along with a few teenaged police cadets. Presently, Sherlock stomped over, took me by the arm and began towing me toward the door.

'John, I need you to come back to Victoria with me and look at the dead prostitute again.'

I ground my heels into the floor in an effort to stop.

'Prostitute?' I asked. Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed.

'Yes John. Prostitute. There was a used condom in the bathroom bin and three hundred pounds in cash in her handbag. Thanks to our esteemed colleague' Anderson shot him a dirty look 'we know that the panties she was wearing contained traces of semen from eight different men, three of whom are on police record. So yes John. She was a prostitute.' I gaped at him. A cadet walked purposefully into the room and made for Lestrade, when Sherlock tugged the scrap of paper from her hand and scanned it, leaving the messenger to stare at her hand in confusion

'Ah, her name was Daisy Walsingham, aged seventeen, Lestrade, we've got a…'

'S-s-sir!' someone squeaked. Everyone turned to see a stark white cadet pointing shakily inside a wall cupboard. Lestrade, Sherlock, Anderson and myself, all ran over to see what it was, pushing the panicking young man out of the way. Inside the cupboard, was a Bunsen burner, connected to a gas supply. Hanging over it was a balloon, smouldering slightly in the flame, filled with

'Petrol.' Said Sherlock, his voice rising in alarm.

'Donovan!' snapped Lestrade, 'Everyone out, Now!'

'But sir…' she began. Sherlock yanked her in front of the cupboard.

'There's not more than a couple of minutes left in that rubber and the Bunsen burner is connected to a mains gas supply. If that goes up it'll cause an explosion that will kill us all.' She paled but steeled herself and started shouting at the cadets to get out.

Sherlock, Lestrade and I sprinted out the back door, followed by half a dozen cadets with about a minute to spare. I remember giggling like a child when one of the cadets leant up against the fence, pushed his beret back and exclaimed

'Sodding Arseholes.'

'You are in uniform, Cadet Meriwether.' Snapped Lestrade, his voice hardly shaking at all.

The boy adjusted his jacket and gave me a cheeky grin as he said 'Sorry Inspector. Sodding arseholes Sir.'

Lestrade had just begun railing at the unfortunate youngster when a spine chilling thought occurred.

'You are sure everyone's out aren't you Lestrade?' I said slowly.

'Course.' He said, lighting a cigarette 'Piece of cake, they're only cadets; they do what they're told. Right Meriwether?'

'Oh yes sir.' Replied the youth brightly, rolling his eyes behind Lestrade's back. I looked at Sherlock. He was staring at the back door, white to the lips.

'No.' he said 'Not everyone's out. Because you sent three cadets upstairs. And someone just walked past that window.'

And then he was running down the garden to the house, and I just could not believe that my friend, the genius and self-certified high functioning sociopath was doing something so damn stupid, so I ran after him. At the time it seemed a perfectly logical decision. In hindsight, not so much.

I apparently reached him as the rubber burnt through. A wall of heat ripped through the garden as I wrapped my arms around his waist and slammed us both face first into the lawn. I pressed my face into the back of his jacket and clung on for dear life as I felt glass, plaster and brick go whizzing over my head.

'What was…' I heard from my left shoulder before I grabbed the back of his neck and forced his face back into the grass as a chunk of lead tile bit into my bad shoulder. For the next few minutes I lay face down as assorted debris raked my scalp and back. The anxiety I had been feeling over the trapped cadets and the exploding house evaporated as I heard

'I could get used to this.' Spoken quietly from underneath me. Even slightly muffled, Sherlock still contrived to sound scathing. I blushed fiery red and rolled off him onto the ravaged grass. Sherlock rolled over too and we lay there panting for a while.

'Got any cigarettes?' I asked

He flopped over to look at me 'You don't smoke.'

'I'm going to start. You have driven me to it.'

And we both started giggling inanely. Sherlock put on his Mycroft voice

'Just once can you two act like grown-ups?' which sent me back into fits of giggles.

At that moment, Lestrade and two cadets sprinted into view. However, when the two youngsters stopped, Lestrade barrelled right on through and I just managed to slide out of the way before he grabbed Sherlock's coat lapels and slapped him heavily across the face.

'Don't ever do anything like that to me again!' he yelled, shaking a surprised Sherlock with each word 'I do not want to have to go home tonight and explain to your brother why his baby brother…'

'So you and Mycroft are shagging.' Said Sherlock nonchalantly, picking at the grass. 'Thank you for the information Lestrade, you've just given me a very useful weapon.'

Dead silence.

'Not a good time?' he murmured

'Probably not no.' I said, watching Lestrade go bright red at the smirks of the cadets.

And now dear reader, it is only left to say that, Sherlock and I made a full recovery from minor injuries, the three cadets where in fact making their way downstairs at the time of the explosion. Two escaped with relatively moderate injuries, the third was in a bad way and I had to treat at the scene, which left me with a shaking hand and the ghost of my old limp. Lestrade was a given a special commendation for bravery, and Sherlock got a rebuke from Mycroft via text, saying simply 'Why didn't you blow the candle out? MH'

**AN: the first paragraph is kind of an in joke for me. You see, I live in Surrey, but I'm not from Surrey, and the first paragraph is what it is genuinely like. No, really. REVIEW!**


	8. Chapter 8

**AN: hey guys! **

**So, the reason I'm probably going to be updating every day this week? Rather embarrassing. I fell over in the ambulance yard and sprained my ankle. I know, I know, please no jokes, I was wearing my uniform at the time (including my nice red sash) and got taken to hospital in one of my own ambulances, whilst still wearing my uniform. In conclusion, I am up on crutches and have a stupid boot thing, meaning that I can't even go and get my own Jammy Dodgers. So I write out my pain by making characters from a BBC show do stupid things.**

**Which really, as I spent last night giggling away in the back of an ambulance under the influence of some fairly powerful drugs, is rather a hypocritical statement to make. Anyway, moving on.**

**Lily x**

It had been raining for three days solid. And yet, Sherlock still made me go for milk. In fact, he'd pushed me through the door so quickly that I hadn't had time to grab my coat. So as I stood there in my t-shirt in the icy rain he opened the kitchen window and gave me a cheery wave.

I did resist the urge to kill him. But only just.

By virtue of opening a cab door and flashing Lestrade's ID at the driver (Sherlock has his uses. Besides, since Sherlock had found out about him and Mycroft he'd stopped giving him cases, so having been stuck in a flat for three days with a bored Sherlock, I felt he owed me.) I managed to get there, however, being the naturally confident creature I am, I said to the cabby,

'Don't wait. I'll get another one back.'

Yes you know don't you. I didn't.

By the time I got out of the shop (Sherlock only takes semi skimmed milk in his tea, but it can't be above nine percent fat, it must be organic and it cannot be from anywhere other than Jersey. There really is no point in getting it wrong, he'd only have sent me back.) it was four in the morning and therefore, too early for cleaners, too late for clubbers. No cabs anywhere. It was still pissing it down, and the only options where call Sherlock and beg, who if he could find a cab, wouldn't have come anyway, or run.

Deciding that a wet pair of jeans was preferable to a lecture from Sherlock ('always make them wait John!') and that in any case, it'd give me an excuse to be as vile to Sherlock as he was being to me.

Anyway, twenty minutes later I squelched into the front hall at Baker street and groaned as i realised my head had acquired the stuffed up, cotton wool filled feeling that your head gets when you are on the verge of a cold. Gloomily, I wandered up the stairs, dumped the bag in Sherlock's lap and squelched up the stairs to bed. Twenty minutes later, there came a knock at my door. Predictably, when one feels ill, the knock on the door comes the second you have gotten comfy.

'Yes, Sherlock, what is it? Before you go any further, if it's anything to do with the frigging milk I'll tell you now I am not going back to that bloody shop.'

He opened my door, looking indignant 'John, from the way you are breathing it's fairly evident that you are ill. You are my friend, do you really believe that I would ask you to take the milk back?'

I thought about giving the honest answer, which was 'Yes', but decided against it because Sherlock would have gotten offended and I was dying for a cup of tea.

'No, Sherlock I don't.' I sighed and buried my head in the pillows, whimpering softly. I heard Sherlock shuffling about by the door a bit.

'Are you still here?' I snapped. Along with strong medication, cold tea and Mycroft, being ill seems to make me snappy. I heard Sherlock sigh and say hesitantly

'I was wondering if you wanted anything. Soup or tea or...'

A horrible suspicion crept over me. 'Sherlock, did you google a cold?'

He grudgingly said, 'well, no one's ever stayed long enough to get ill around me and when I was a kid, Mummy always quarantined whichever of us was ill...'

I giggled quietly into the pillow. He'd been like this when I broke my arm, Mr High- Functioning- sociopath – I – Don't – Need – Friends - They – Only – Slow – Me – Down turned into a mother hen at first exposure to anyone vaguely ill or injured. I suspected it was Mrs. Hudson's influence.

'Thank you Sherlock. Stick the kettle on.'

The next morning I woke up to the strange sensation that our flat's roof had caved in and a large amount of the rubble had heaped itself onto my chest. I coughed with a noise like nails in a blender.

'Sh'l'ck' I groaned, before giving another hacking cough, and reflecting on the possibility that something small and furry had slept in my mouth. After a few seconds my door creaked open to reveal Sherlock, poking his head anxiously around the door.

'God, you look terrible.' He asserted pertly.

I glared at him.

'You know that word Lestrade uses?' he continued

I though blearily. 'What, 'Manky'?'

'Yes. Well that's how you look.'

I rolled over and shut my eyes in annoyance. I had always imagined that manky was how you felt after three days on the piss at university. The idea that anyone could look like that made me wonder exactly what the hell had happened to me. I rolled back over and glared at Sherlock, apparently pissed off because he was perfectly healthy and I felt like shit.

'Anyway' he said brightly 'what was it you wanted John?'

I blew my nose and searched on my bedside table for another tissue. 'Tea' I said, sniffing 'and more tissues.'

Several hours later I was still feeling sorry for myself. Sherlock was sat in a chair dragged in from the kitchen and working silently on his laptop. I had been surprised that he was willing to be near me at all, sick as I was. When Mycroft had the flu last year, he'd barred him from the flat and disinfected everything in sight, but now that I was ill, he was sat quietly keeping me company. I sniffed and puzzled over it. I should have known better. Sherlock's hand materialized above me holding a tissue, I snatched it and said

'Look, I know you want to take care of me Sherlock, but you really don't have to do all this...' he smiled indulgently at me and said

'Oh, it's a piece of cake. Isn't this what friends are supposed to do?'

And then comprehension dawned like an early morning sunrise. I sat up in bed and glared at him.

'You're doing an experiment aren't you Sherlock?'

He at least had the grace to look embarrassed. I flopped my head back on to the pillows and moaned

'Sherlock!'

'John, it was too good an opportunity to miss, I had to...'

'No Sherlock! That is NOT what friends do!' I sneezed. He looked down at his laptop and then looked up, giving me a sheepish smile.

'I don't suppose it would help if I told you that the results of the experiment have come out one hundred percent positive for...'

'No, Sherlock, it would not help!' I snapped, rolling back onto my side and folding my arms. A few long moments passed, I looked back and saw Sherlock had gone back to serenely entering data into the laptop.

'Purely out of academic interest.' I said grudgingly 'What was the experiment?'

He grinned wolfishly. 'Trust me John, if you are offended at the idea that there has been an experiment at all, you will definitely not want to know what the experiment was.'


	9. Chapter 9

**AN: so, I'm a little unsure whether to carry on with this story because, I didn't get any reviews on the last chapter and feedback hasn't been all that great all the way through... but yeah, if you have any form of opinion then leave a review or something. Also I'm taking prompts. **

**Enjoy!**

**Lily x**

It had been quiet for nearly twenty minutes.

I had therefore become very suspicious.

Sherlock had been forcibly dragged, under heavy protest, into Lestrade's office about half an hour ago because he'd found a suspect in the Johanssen Murder Case, as to why he was a suspect, I'd stopped listening half way through in the full and certain knowledge that I would get a blow by blow account of Sherlock's brilliant deductions when I got home. Anyway, unfortunately for British society, the suspect was The Honourable Philip Albright, Son of the Viscount Albright, all of which meant fuck all to me but apparently had caused sensation in the papers and was the reason Sherlock had been dragged into the Office at ten o'clock on a rainy December morning. And we'd only been on the case two hours. It really was amazing. It usually took Sherlock quite a long time to annoy Lestrade this much.

After The Viscountess and Viscount had marched imperiously into Lestrade's little office, for the first ten minutes there had been shouting and screaming and threats of legal action, before, as I have said before, it all went quiet.

Apparently my dear friend was the source of said silence, as his voice was the last I heard before it all went quiet. I was quite impressed by that because, while Sherlock can be rude (stubborn, pig-headed, ungrateful, inappropriate, the list goes on...) I very much doubted that he could silence twenty people with one observation. And then I remembered that this was Sherlock Holmes I was talking about.

My doubts stopped, only to be replaced with fervent prayers to any God that was listening

'Please God don't let anyone beat him up, I don't think I can deal with the whining.' My religious epiphany was interrupted by some heavy thumps and a short groan. Oh shit. I put my head in my hands and muttered

'Do you want me to become an atheist? Because you really aren't doing yourself any favours you know.' And the like. I rose from my own personal little circle of hell, to see the Viscoutess sweeping majestically around the office trilling

'I really have never been so insulted in my life! My son is an Honourable! Do you honestly believe that he is a common killer Mr Holmes?'

To be honest looking at the hulking shape of her husband, I had to say yes. The man was enormous, with wide set eyes and hands like dustbin lids. You could have stuffed a mattress with the hair on the backs of his hands, and the fact that he was smartly dressed only contrived to make him look like a monkey that had been strategically shaved and put in a suit.

For the second time in his, relatively short, life, Sherlock had been hit and sent reeling backwards against the desk while Lestrade shouted at him and Dimmock sweated and held back the Honourable Philip, who was desperately struggling to get at Sherlock. Meanwhile in the time that I had been stood there The Viscountess, Lady Venetia Albright, as she insisted on being addressed, had pointedly fainted and recovered three times before finally having to resort to having noisy hysterics in a swivel chair, and for a large woman that was no mean feat.

I was enjoying the little tableau from the door when Sherlock dropped his hand from his cheek and in a snarl that practically froze the room solid said,

'Yes Madam, I do. I very rarely take social class into account when investigating a murder, and certainly not in this case. The honourable Philip quite clearly killed Miss Antonia Johanssen, in no small part because he is wearing a shirt with her blood on it. Good grief, he has made no effort whatsoever to hide the evidence of his crime, my lady! When she was found Miss Johanssen had traces of blood under her fingernails, from the position of her hands and the fact that the blood was still fresh when she was found it is fairly obvious that she had scratched at her killer just before she died, assuming that the man who killed her was the same height as Miss Johanssen, which we know he was, the scratch would have been on his face and as you can see madam, The Honourable Philip has a scratch on his face.' Unusually Sherlock was not looking at all smug, in fact he looked angrier than I'd ever seen him. The Viscountess shifted uncomfortably and said

'But how do you know the killers height? This is all just guess work!'

Sherlock rolled his eyes and gave her a pitying look 'Oh please Madam, you must have heard of me and if you are not a fool, you'll be able to reach the conclusion that I never guess.' She went strawberry pink and scowled at him as he continued 'I know that the killer was a man, because I found a shirt underneath the bed. I know that he was the same height as Miss Johanssen because the Shirt had the same measurements as Miss Johanssen's t-shirt, despite clearly being a recently worn men's work shirt. And I know the killer was your son, because he's wearing a shirt with blood on it, the shirt found in Miss Johanssen's room had his DNA all over it. Not to mention the fact that a note was on the hall table of the victim's house signed Peter Gabrhilt. I mean come on! Did you really think using a different first name and an anagram of your second would fool anyone? What are you, a bloody vampire?' he was smirking now, and as soon as I saw the look in the Honourable Philip's eyes I knew that was a mistake. He broke free from Dimmock's hands and leapt at Sherlock, his teeth bared.

There was a split second as Philip hit Sherlock squarely in the chest. Before all hell broke loose. Dimmock reached the struggling pair first, dragging the Honourable Philip off Sherlock and pressing a gun to the back of his neck as Lestrade sat on his legs and cuffed him as quickly as he could. I skipped over the writhing Philip ('Accidentally' kicking him in the groin as I passed. Well anything can happen in confusion like that...) and raced to the prostrate Sherlock, who was lying, breathing heavily on the floor.

He had a long bleeding cut over one eye and seemed to be winded. I dragged him upright and shook him a lot more roughly than I'd intended to.

'Are you alright?' I demanded. He didn't even respond. I shook him again as the panic started to rise.

'Answer me Sherlock!' he opened his mouth and gave a hacking cough.

'Sherlock?' I asked him nervously 'Are you alright?' he gave me a look that could have been construed as comforting, until he ruined it.

'I will be when you get off my chest.' He wheezed. I sagged with relief.

A few minutes later, Sherlock and I were sat on the step of an ambulance. He was snapping at everybody having been wrapped in an orange shock blanket and given a cup of sweet tea by an extremely patronising paramedic, who at that moment was crying softly some way away.

I sighed 'If you're planning on another suicide attempt anytime soon, do tell me.'

He smiled slightly 'I have to say, I did not expect him to react like that.'

'I'd guessed.' I said rolling my eyes. 'You were quite lucky you weren't killed.'

He snorted 'John, you could have taken him. For chrissake Mycroft could have taken him. Piece of cake.'

**AN: so. Stop? Continue? Go away and stop bothering us? Review!**


	10. Chapter 10

**AN: Wow. See, I read that last AN back, and it seemed really whiny, but apparently it worked cos I woke up this morning to about twenty five emails from people who'd followed or favourite or reviewed. So thanks to, fantasybean, Alicia, GRock87, xarime and sneakysnakes, for their reviews and everyone who favourited or followed. It really does mean a lot to me guys, so thanks to you all, and please keep up the good work. **

**This chapter is for Alicia who requested a paternity scare for John. So Enjoy. And review.**

**Lily x**

I slid down the wall in shock as I heard the high-pitched, sobbing voice on the end of the line, and tried in vain to pacify her.

'No Kitty... Calm down... Please Kit... just listen... well, how do you... it can't be... but... please try to calm down Kitty... I meant... Kitty calm down, it's really not that... but it's only been... Oh, I see... but please... I mean, are you sure...' I wiped my face with a shaking hand. Sherlock was looking at me quizzically at me from across the room.

'Look, Just... just... call me back when you know for sure, OK?'

I slumped forwards and sunk my head in my hands, whining gently. I was far too old to be praying while a woman took a pregnancy test. A few moments of horrible reflection later, a mug was waved under my nose. I took it gingerly and looked in. Thankfully, what was in it did, in fact, appear to be tea. I took a mouthful, but nearly spat it out again when he said

'So. Someone is pregnant. And who is Kitty.'

When I finished choking I wheezed 'We don't know that yet.'

He smirked 'What you mean you don't know if She's pregnant or you don't know who Kitty is?'

I stared 'Really not the time Sherlock.'

He shrugged and crossed his long legs at the knee 'What happened?'

I smirked 'Well, when a man and a woman love each other very much...'

He gave me a look most people would reserve for People who said 'Honestly, what's so awful about Genocide?'

'Yes, thank you John, I am aware of the biological aspects. I mean how did it happen in this specific case. You've been going out with the accountant with the undiagnosed myopia haven't you?'

I opened and closed my mouth a few times. I had forgotten about Becky.

'She was the daughter from that case with the diamond cross bow.' I sighed.

'Her?' he said, almost angrily.

I blushed 'Don't judge.' I snapped 'well you told me to talk to her and get her alibi and any evidence about her father that she might have. So I did, and well if you remember!' he coughed and I began again 'Well, she was upset about her dad and... well she knew he'd done it but she didn't want to if you know what I mean... so I took her for a drink. And she didn't have A drink. She had about fifty.'

Sherlock had gone very quiet. I shifted uncomfortably in my seat for a few moments, before he said quietly 'Go on.'

I blushed even deeper and, strangely, began to feel guilty as I said

'Well we both got a bit... tipsy and... and...'

'What?'

'Well, I think she was just upset and she wanted to go home, but she was all over me so...'

'I see.' Sherlock said frostily. He strode into the kitchen looking vaguely disappointed.

'What is wrong with you?' I snapped 'It's me with the weight of the world on my shoulders!'

'Nothing John, it's nothing.' He hissed, his jaw tightening.

I narrowed my eyes 'Seriously Sherlock, I am not in the mood for pissing about.'

He turned suddenly 'You do realise that she is our star witness? If her father's lawyer hears about this he'll plead witness corruption! They'll disregard her statement!'

I gaped

'You slept with her John. That could be construed as bribery or any number of other things and she is not intelligent enough to perjure herself and lie!' he slammed a glass beaker down and hissed 'This could bring the entire case down around our ears! Heaven knows what the press will make of it...'

'You just stop right there!' I burst in angrily. 'I have possibly fathered a child with a woman I barely know and you are talking to me about things falling around your ears!'

'And how exactly is my fault?' he growled back 'You know how to prevent the risk of pregnancy I presume.'

'I was drunk Sherlock!' I shouted 'Sometimes people don't remember things like that!'

He snorted 'Honestly John. You're a Doctor, how many times have you seen this?'

'The difference being that a pregnant fifteen year old is almost invariably abandoned by her boyfriend fairly soon afterwards. I fully intend to stick by Kitty, it that eventuality arises.'

We both stood panting and red faced in the kitchen.

'You'll move out?' he asked quietly

I sighed 'If Kitty is pregnant, I will talk to her about what she wants me to do. But if she wants to get married, then yes. I'll move out.' Again the weird guilt. I sighed. 'I'm sorry Sherlock. I didn't realise I was jeopardizing the case. Or that you'd be so upset by this.'

He fidgeted against the counter and looked anywhere but at me as he said

'I apologize as well John. I realise that this is situation will be very strenuous for you.'

I nodded and smiled in thanks. I'd just sat down to pretend to read the paper when the phone rang. My stomach churned and I just avoided running for the nearest toilet when Sherlock muttered

'Deep breaths, John. Deep breaths.'

'I can't answer it.' I whispered.

Sherlock had taken the opportunity to nick the paper. He sniffed

'Of course you can John.' He replied dismissively 'You've lived with me with added Mycroft for nearly two years now. Compared to that fatherhood will be a piece of cake.'

I grinned weakly and nervously picked up the phone and swallowed, slient prayers running through my head like a mantra.

'Hello?' I squeaked, before clearing my throat and repeating 'Hello?'

I listened for a while to the much calmer voice on the line and collapsed gasping on to the floor as she said her final word. Sherlock yelled and dragged me upright asking if I was alright and all I could do was hug him and tears running down my face like rain.

Kitty's test was negative.

**AN: More? Less? Leave me alone? Feeling low and wanna talk? REVIEW!**


	11. Chapter 11

**AN: Damn this chapter is dark. I had my last exam today, so I guess I'm feeling kinda dark… anyway, many thanks to Alicia, fantasybean and Boxerbee for your wonderful reviews. Keep 'em comin'! I'm still looking for prompts by the way.**

**This chapter is for sneakysnakes who asked for some serious stuff, so serious stuff it is. I have a friend who works on the Surrey and Sussex Air Ambulance and one of his hobbies is to tell horror stories about his job. This is one of them. Anyway I know the last chapter wasn't technically an injury, so while it should be Sherlock's turn to hurt himself, sneakysnakes asked for John, so here we go.**

**Lily**

Upon reflection, it was my own stupid fault. Bravado and arrogance, that's what caused it. What left me like this. I should have listened.

I knew what she'd done. I knew she'd stabbed her fellow students in the windpipe, not enough to kill them immediately, but so she could watch them plead as they suffocated. So why, why, why goddammit why did I follow her? All I had to do was drop behind and wait for the official police, but no. I knew better. I ignored Sherlock as he shouted at me not to follow her, and I caught up with her by the theatre. Of course, what I didn't take into account was that I had brought myself closer to her. And she was a murderer.

If you'd seen her nine months ago, you'd never have believed it. Sherlock and I had arrived on the scene on Tuesday, seen the body of James Conway, huddled in a corner of his tiny dorm room. She was there, sobbing and trying to put her arms around his body, while Lestrade tried to keep her away. No one took a blind bit of notice of her. It was in that room that I saw a photo of Miss Jo-Jo Standwell from nine months ago. She looked healthy and tanned, the couple smiling widely, James had his arm around Jo-Jo and she was looking at him in adoration. It had been put away in a drawer. That really should have been our first clue.

Upon questioning, Miss Standwell, sobbed and gulped her way through an explanation. She was James' girlfriend, they'd had a fight the night before and she'd gone down in the morning to patch things up. He'd been having a fling with the girl who lived across the hall from him and that was what the fight was about.

'He promised he'd change.' She wailed 'I had to do it!' that should have been our second clue. But no one really thought anything about the fluffy haired, baby blue eyed, blonde dance student. She'd played the airhead card and dripped her way through interviews, she wore black from the day James' body was found and all in all happily played the part of the distraught and grieving girlfriend. She was clever I had to give her that.

It was only a few days after Elizabeth Ward's body turned up that things started to get suspicious. If the college rostrum was correct, Elizabeth had the room across from James'. So if Jo-Jo's statement was to be believed, Elizabeth was the fling. This time, there was no crying blonde, but a very confused neighbour that told us Elizabeth and James had been engaged for a month. But he'd heard Elizabeth complain that James' ex was giving them both a lot of trouble. When pressed for details, he told us that Elizabeth had said that the ex still thought that she and James were together and had gotten jealous when he told her that he was taking Elizabeth and, not her, to the college winter ball. The final nail in the coffin: the name of James' ex was Jo.

By the time we managed to relay this news to Lestrade, another student had been found dead, a Tom Forster. Exactly the same method of death, a small puncture wound to the oesophagus and a clumsy stab wound elsewhere on the body, presumably to lead the police off on the wrong track. We didn't have to talk to too many students before we learned that Jo-Jo had been sleeping with Tom to make James jealous.

By that time of course, she'd realised we were on to something and had done a runner. Police, plus me and Sherlock, had caught up with her outside the train station, but she'd made a break for it. Sherlock yelled at me to stay back, but I remembered the fear and desperation frozen on the faces of all the dead students, so I followed her. I didn't know the terrain well enough; this was Guildford not London, but I'd followed her to the best of my ability, until now, when I caught up with her on Millbrook road.

I snatched at the sleeve of her jacket but she swung round and twisted my arm up behind my back, stopping just short of hearing bones crunch. She leaned forward so she could whisper in my ear

'I know what you see when you look at me, you see a blonde, too dim to have carefully planned and waited for all those months, don't you? You were wrong.' She was growling in my ear and she had a knife, I could feel it just under my ribs. 'I was clever, I did it by the book and I am not going to be taken down by the likes of you!' she put pressure on the knife and I felt it dig into the flesh, her voice dropped to a silky purr again as she said 'So you know what I'm going to do, Mr Watson? I could gut you like a fish, but I'm not going to. I'm going to do something a little bit…special. And it'll last just long enough for your friend to come round that corner.' I shut my eyes and swallowed 'Shame really.' She said, almost ponderously 'I won't get to see you die. But Mr Holmes will. And I think you'll agree, that'll hurt him more than I ever could.' I felt the flat of her hand drive the knife in under my ribs to the hilt, heard the hiss of air that indicated a punctured lung and fell to my knees. As I fell forwards, she placed her foot on the small of my back, driving the knife in further, I would have screamed if I could have drawn breath. The knife twisted, I could feel as it scythed through a few millimetres of skin, then finally, agonisingly, she withdrew her foot and I slumped onto the tarmac, staring at her. She lifted my chin with one finger, making the muscles in my neck scream and my throat contract.

She smiled 'My brave war hero.' She simpered 'Let's make you look a little more… valiant. Shall we?' she slapped me, hard once across the face before standing up and grinding the heel of her boot into my face. I felt my nose break and blood run down my chin. 'Have a nice life Mr Watson.' She said, kissing me daintily on the cheek 'It'll be short. I guarantee it.' and she kicked down on the uninjured side of my chest, and was gone.

I lay there gasping wetly, from the screeching pain on the kicked side of my chest she'd broken more than one rib and, as she'd punctured the other lung quite badly, my guess was I had less than five minutes. Blood seemed to be coming from everywhere, I couldn't see properly because of the blood from my nose and moving was entirely out of the question. Even breathing was forcing the puncture in my lung wider. Tears began to seep from under my eyelids, I remember going through everyone I knew, God bless Mum and Dad, God bless Molly, Please, please God bless Sherlock… I knew I didn't have long left.

I didn't however count on Sherlock. One minute into my five minute estimate, someone ran around the corner into the theatre car park, where I lay in secluded silence. I remember thinking that he was in an awful hurry, and also that it was funny, but he was shouting my name. I couldn't move or speak, so I coughed as loudly as I could, stupid thing to do in retrospect. The pain in my chest had become almost unbearable, and I felt the blood bubble up and over my lips. The footsteps sounded louder and faster as they came towards me and as they reached the place I had come in by, I heard a gasp and

'Oh god John!' I recognised the voice. It was Sherlock. I genuinely could have sobbed in relief. He came forward cautiously, as I reached out and groped blindly for him he took my hand and held it. I could hear him talking to someone urgently on the phone, but I didn't pay attention. I knew that Sherlock was with me and I was safe.

I was jerked back to consciousness a few seconds later when I found that I couldn't breathe anymore. To me this seemed perfectly acceptable, if I stopped breathing I might die and death would stop the burning pain in my chest. I realised that this was definitely not good when I heard Sherlock yell and start shouting down the phone,

'He's stopped breathing! I can't get a response at all, he's… no I don't… please just hurry would you!' I was confused, Sherlock sounded panicky and Sherlock never panicked. I heard him hang up the phone and he gripped my hand even tighter

'I don't know if you can hear me John, but you're going to be all right. D'you hear me? You'll be alright…' moments later I heard sirens come screaming into the car park and heard Sherlock breathe out rapidly. Three people ran up and began whispering amongst themselves, finally someone stepped forward and said

'Dr Watson, my name is Dr Rachael Horton. We're going to need some emergency surgery. And I do mean emergency. If it will save your life, will you allow us to perform some of the rudiments here?'

'Of course he will…' snapped Sherlock

'Dr Watson?' Dr Horton repeated over the top of Sherlock. I squeezed his hand and Sherlock told them I gave my permission.

Sherlock says that Dr Horton did some rudimentary stitching to stop up my wound and hopefully partially block the puncture. She also inserted a breathing tube through a small hole made in my lung and two critical care paramedics drained the fluid from my lungs, all in the car park. The air ambulance arrived a few minutes later. I was air lifted to hospital and Sherlock was allowed in the helicopter too as I apparently wouldn't let go of his hand. I was pronounced clinically dead on arrival at the hospital but a crash team revived me. I was taken into emergency surgery to stop up the puncture, set my nose and ribs and repair the lacerations to my scalp and chest. I emerged two hours later and was taken directly to the Intensive care unit where I lay for a week in a chemically induced coma.

I remember none of it.

I do remember a little incident that perhaps some would like me to forget. It was a few hours before I woke up, the pentobarbital I was taking having been reduced over the past few hours. I remember someone entering my room very quietly; he then stood there for several minutes clearing his throat before quickly making his way over to my bedside.

'John.' He muttered, I couldn't quite recognise the voice 'I know this is partially my fault. I blame myself I honestly do John! Just… just, please wake up. You have to be ok. You have to John.' Whoever it was sounded slightly desperate 'I couldn't live with myself if you didn't. You have to. Look at me, I'm begging you!' he sniffed and gingerly took my hand 'I don't believe in a God John, but if it would help you, I swear I would be down on my knees right now.' He chuckled weakly 'If there is any time that I could understand belief in a celestial being it is now John. But you don't need a God John. You can do it all by yourself, piece of cake. The doctors said there's only a thirty per cent chance you'll wake up if they take you off the meds, and if you do it'll be in the next few hours. So if you do wake up, I'll... I'll be here. So try. For me.'

I don't remember anything after that until a few hours later. I remember feeling like I'd promised my mystery guest something, so when I felt something pulling me away I panicked. I thought I was dying, so I fought to stay right up until the moment I opened my eyes. It was glorious It really was. Even the sight of Sherlock sprawled, unshaven, in a chair was wonderful to me. And I suddenly realised. My mystery guest had said 'So if you do wake up, I'll be here.' ah-ha…

As I thought these treacherous thoughts, I suddenly realised that Sherlock had opened his eyes and was gazing blearily up at me. When I looked at him I saw of a flash of something cross his eyes, but it was gone before I could identify it.

'Alright?' he said shyly after we'd stared at each other for a few minutes.

'Yeah' I said, grinning 'yeah. Piece of cake.'

**AN: whoa! I did not expect this to be so LONG! Anyway, good? Bad? Review!**


	12. Chapter 12

**AN: HI! I've run out of prompts so we're back to whatever my brain vomits out again… Many thanks to reviewers sneakysnakes, fantsybean and GRock87 for their very lovely comments, you guyth are AMATHING!**

**Yeah, anyway. Here is the latest chapter. And he said unto them review. And prompt. Here endeth the lesson.**

**Lily**

It has recently come to my attention that I have never known Sherlock get injured in a, how shall I put it, normal way. The man seems to have something inside of him that eschews the normal, scoffs at the fundamental and gets confused when you say the word average.

Arrogant young Medical students who think they know it all should be sent to live with Sherlock for a week. In that time he will contract several rare diseases, some of them known only in fish, blow himself up in a pretty but nevertheless explosive way and nearly get himself killed by a suspect on a daily basis.

Any man who presents such a medical phenomenon should not be without his share of allergies, and Sherlock is definitely not without his share. In one pale and skinny body he seems to comprise the conjoined characteristics of a crab, a lion and a guinea pig, but put a plate of gouda cheese in front of him and he will break out in hives like the surface of the moon.

Which is probably why he's the only person I know who could nearly kill himself with breakfast cereal.

After the Great Yoghurt Incident of '10 I made him sit down and write every single allergy he had down. Two notebooks and a call to his mother later, they were all stored in the medicine cabinet along with all the epi-pens, tablets and medic alerts that Sherlock would need to keep him alive past the age of thirty seven.

Now, dear reader, I'm sure you know as well as I do that there's always bloody something. In a hospital scenario, it will be the little old lady, no sooner has the drip gone up, the drugs gone in and everyone is starting to feel better, will she say 'Did I mention I'm allergic to penicillin?'

Of course, in my own little world Sherlock has forgotten one very important little thing to tell me, and by the time I find out, it will be far too late to do anything about it.

It all started when we came home from the hospital. When we got back to our flat, I looked in all the kitchen cupboards and asked

'When did you last have something to eat?' and laughed. Naturally, since he had no cases, even though I wasn't there I had assumed that he had at least managed to feed himself. I think you will agree that was a very stupid assumption to make.

'A nurse brought me some tea and biscuits.' He said vaguely, flipping idly through the paper. Immediately suspicion began to creep in.

'What day was it?' I asked, narrowing my eyes.

'Oh, Wednesday, Thursday, I don't know John.' He sighed, giving me a pained look.

'And before that?'

'What day did we finish the case?'

'You mean what day did I get brutally stabbed? Last Friday.'

'Last Wednesday then.' He said, nonchalantly staring at the paper.

'What?' I said 'That's over a week, Sherlock!'

'Yes I am aware of that John, I was…'

'Kitchen. NOW!' I barked. He jumped, before scowling and sulkily wandering into the kitchen.

'Really John, I don't see what business of yours it is if I…'

I left him grumbling and stalked to the bathroom. Damn him! I pulled out my kit and 'The List' and skimmed it, but neither of the things I was planning on giving him were there. I checked inside my kit and smiled grimly when I saw what was there, taking out a bottle of milky brown liquid. I went back to the kitchen and poured the brown liquid into a glass before slamming it down on the table and saying 'Drink.'

He inspected the glass, revulsion on his face before saying imperiously 'Not that I'm not grateful John, but what on earth is it?'

I glanced over my shoulder and sniffed 'Diorolite. Chicken flavour.' The look on his face told me all I needed to know.

'Honestly John, I know the health service is free but that doesn't mean you can take whatever you like!'

I sighed and pinched my nose 'Sherlock, the st John ambulance crews don't even bother kitting out their ambulances, they just borrow stuff of the regular crews. That is theft. Not grabbing Diorolite when I can which, living with you, is a precaution. Now drink up!'

He gave me a penetrating stare from over the rim of his glass, which lost all effect when he gagged.

'God that's vile!'

I grinned humourlessly. 'I know Sherlock. It's to teach you a lesson. Next time it'll be tomato flavour.' I added, throwing the putrid mixture down the sink. He looked at me sadly.

'You used to be nice.' He complained

I smiled indulgently 'I'm still nice.' I said innocently 'I didn't make you drink it all did I?' I plonked a bowl of honey nut cornflakes down in front of him. And then I made the fatal mistake. I walked away.

Walking away was a stupid thing to do under the circumstances anyway, because Sherlock had been known to scrape an entire meal into the dustbin and still be back in his seat with an innocent expression, thirty seconds later. But it was really stupid because the one thing that was not on The List was the one thing that potentially could have killed him.

Sherlock is fatally allergic to nuts.

I heard a crash from the kitchen and came running, he was sprawled on the floor, his neck was swelling and he somehow still managed to look utterly bored by the whole thing. I stared for a few seconds before medical school and all those pointless seeming first aid courses caught up with me and I ran to the bathroom, yanked open the medicine cabinet and pulled out an epipen. On the way back, almost as an afterthought, I picked up my mobile and dialled for an ambulance.

I skidded into the kitchen in my socks and managed to kneel beside Sherlock who was choking now and his lips were going an alarming shade of blue. I managed o get him to lie still for a minute and thumped the pen hard into his leg.

There was silence in the little kitchen for moment, except for Sherlock's ragged breathing. Then I heard 'Hello?' in my ear and remembered the ambulance.

I spoke to the controller and confirmed that my casualty was conscious and breathing but 'A bit bleary'. I told her his allergies (took a while) and that I was a doctor. She told me the ETA for an ambulance was twelve minutes. Amber on the triage, middlingly serious.

By this time, Sherlock had started to recover. He scowled at me and rubbed his leg.

'You didn't need to hit me that hard!' he pouted

'In English we say thank you.' I said mildly

'Well.' He seemed to be fighting with himself. 'Thank you… I suppose.'

I smiled annoyingly at him.

'Piece of cake.' I replied.

He was still sulking when the ambulance arrived a few minutes later.

**AN: Hmmm… not a great chapter. Oh well, review if you have any form of opinion. Or if you don't have an opinion and just like being a part of things. Yay the undecided!**


	13. Chapter 13

**AN: HEEEEEEEEEEEYYYYY! So guys, I'm reeeeaaaalllllyyyy sorry bout not posting over the weekend but I was shouting at snotty eleven year olds all weekend. To be honest I would rather have been updating for you guys. Anyways, thanks to GRock87, Fantasybean, Trakrat (formerly known as Alicia) and Boxerbee for reviews and all the guys that favourite. I must also apologise to Charlock221 for forgetting to mention them when they reviewed. **

**Anyways, this chapter was prompted by GRock87 in her amazingness. Thank you for prompts also as I have gone from having none to having them coming out of my ears. But by no means does that mean stop.**

**If the good lord had not intended you to review, he wouldn't have provided you with the sexy little grey box. Think on it my child**

**Lily**

I drummed my fingers irritably against the bed frame as the phone rang. I was sincerely praying that he'd pick up. This could be a matter of life and death...

Damn him! I thought as the answer machine sounded. I quickly hung up and dialled again, sweat breaking out on my forehead at the mere thought of what might be happening in my absence.

I heard the click of someone picking up on the other end.

'What John?'

'You know perfectly well what Sherlock! Well? Have you?'

'Well, no not yet but...'

'Sherlock!'

'John, I have told you before...'

'And I have told you! Kitchen, Now!'

'John, this is undignified!' he hissed

I snorted 'Oh this is undignified? And a thirty year old man needing a phone call every day to remind him to eat isn't?'

'I didn't ask you to call me.' He shot back 'This is entirely under your own merit.'

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed. Time to play the closing shot I felt. Enter Federer.

'Sherlock.' I said calmly 'If you don't start eating regularly and responding a little more politely to my calls, I'm going to call in Mycroft. And he will bring Lestrade with him.'

There was silence on the other line. Game, set, match Federer, I thought smugly.

Finally there was a low sigh and I heard some distant grumbling before the sound of a phone being picked up and a very grumpy consulting detective said,

'Where's the bacon?'

I smiled 'In the fridge. Under the butter dish full of eyeballs.'

'John, why is edible food underneath experiments? It's unhygienic.'

Shortly afterwards I fell off the bed and lay on the floor giggling while Sherlock indignantly insisted that 'It's not that funny!' I was saved from choking on my own spit by a yelp on the other line and a sheepish sounding Sherlock shyly asking me what heat to put the stove on. I patiently told him and listened to him prepare his meal.

A little while later he picked up the phone and sulkily said 'Happy?'

I laughed 'Very Sherlock. Missing me?' I asked sweetly

The snort of derision made its way clearly over the airwaves 'Why should I miss you John, when you can nag me over the phone every day. It's like you never went away.' He replied sarcastically.

'I told you Sherlock, I promised your brother. I am not willing to be exiled to Siberia because you didn't eat your coco pops.'

I could hear the scowl over the phone, really quite an impressive feat. He muttered something indistinguishable.

'I love you too Sherlock.' I smiled sweetly, before hanging up and lying on my back and giggling.

Three weeks ago, Harry had emailed me a bad scan of a wedding invitation, giving me the welcome news that our parents had decided to renew their vows. I immediately hotfooted it up to Northumberland to give my congratulations to them, leaving a whining Sherlock and a trail of indignant texts from everybody in my wake.

My original intention had been to go up, stay a day or two, hug and kiss all the people who said 'You don't remember me do you?' and when I confirmed that I didn't got annoyed and grab as much food as I could. I had never expected to be made to stay for the actual ceremony. Even less to be dragged into a bespoke suit shop and cooed over by my mother for at least three hours as she and all the other middle aged women in my family sobbed that I would be 'Just the perfect best man'.

A few quick phone calls later and it became apparent that I was still responsible for Sherlock, as Mycroft was in Moscow (there were some rather disturbing noises at his end. I decided not to ask.) and Lestrade was still not talking to Sherlock, after the business with the countess of Wessex and the chocolate chastity belt. Unfortunately, Mycroft also managed to get in a threat before he terminated our brief phone call. Nothing new, just the casual 'I – know – where – you – live – if – my – brother – dies – you – have – his – blood – on – your – hands – and – I – will – see – you – run – through – hell' casual crap that he always gets me with, but Mycroft's and my mother's threats combined had resulted in the daily phone call and me begging, on more than one occasion, that Sherlock, eat, stop smoking and stop terrorising Mrs Hudson.

Surprising as it may seem, the above transcripted conversation was a highly mellowed version. Earlier in the week long arrangement, Sherlock's scathing retorts and my family's casual torture had reduced me to tears once. Fortunately, this had a bonus of making Sherlock shut up and stop resisting. He'd even asked me if I was alright the following night.

To be honest, at this point I had no fucking clue as to why I was still in Northumberland. The renewal had been three days ago, but it seemed every time I tried to talk to my mother about leaving, she would mention some engagement or dinner that 'You simply MUST go to John, that lovely Janey girl is going. You know Janey? You used to go to school with her, she had terrible acne...' and so on. It occurred to me never to introduce Mycroft to my mother. Together they would have been a force to be reckoned with.

Presently my phone beeped.

It was a text from Sherlock unsurprisingly, but surprisingly, it wasn't along the lines of 'there's no more bread.', 'can I use the butter for an experiment' or 'I can't reach the newspaper, Fetch!' it was 'We need to get you out of there-SH'

I grinned 'Too right, I'm a prisoner!-JW'

'Indeed. Climb out of your window-SH'

'Original, Sherlock.-JW'

'Oh Come on, there's a tree just outside. With some acrobatics you should just manage it.-SH'

I frowned and turned to the window. He was right. Ah.

'What train did you get?-JW'

A few seconds passed 'Very clever. Now jump.-SH'

'Fine.-JW'

I locked the door and edged the window open. Sherlock was stood there, outside, grinning evilly.

'I feel like a naughty teenage girl!' I whisper-yelled.

'Funny,' he replied 'You don't look much like a naughty teenage girl.'

'Haha.' I snapped 'I can't believe you... ooohh Shhhh...' as a branch broke. I plummeted to the ground but luckily, Sherlock 'Caught' me, by which I mean he got in my way.

Blushing furiously, I climbed off him, to find him still grinning annoyingly as he got to his feet.

'Have you noticed that this is happening a lot more lately.' He said nonchalantly 'One might almost think that you had a fettish...'

I turned away so he couldn't see my fiery blush.

'Alright?' he asked as I brushed myself down and started walking away, giving furtive glances at the house behind me. But I couldn't resist a grin.

'Yeah.' I said 'Piece of cake.'

**AN: ahahaha... I don't quite know what the hell was going on there, kinda ran away with me and my brain went along for the ride. Anyways, got any form of opinion? Review and let me know what it is! Seriously. Anything.**


	14. Chapter 14

**AN: Hey. I was bored, so you guys got this. Thanks to fantasybean, GRock87 and an anonymous reviewer for their loverly reviews.**

**This chapter was prompted by fantasybean a couple of chapters back. Anyways, I am running out of prompts again, so off you go!**

**Review and prompt my children**

**Lily **

I would genuinely never have guessed Sherlock's secret weakness.

Early in our acquaintance I had realised that, after long periods spent on cases, Sherlock would lock himself in his bedroom for a day or two or simply lie on the sofa staring at the ceiling, before either emerging or getting up, often in the same clothes he had been wearing during the period of activity. But for the life of me I could not work out what he was doing.

He wouldn't talk to me or even respond to anything, during these periods of sloth-like demeanour but I knew that he would sleep very little, if at all, because I could hear him moving around when I went to my own room.

It all seemed very odd, but, as I've said before, as it was Sherlock, I really had no right to complain.

Luckily for me, these incommunicado periods gave me some very welcome quiet time and fairly often I managed to do extra shifts at the surgery or clean up the flat around him, much to Mrs Hudson's delight. Unfortunately, it also had the following, rather drastic consequences. Which, if Sherlock did not constantly assure me was not my fault, I would never forgive myself for.

It was shortly after one of the longest cases we'd ever worked on. A series of people had been found all across London, having been electrocuted and killed. They were people from all different walks of life, seemingly with nothing to link them together. But obviously with Sherlock on the case, it had been about twenty minutes before he realised that every single one of the victims had been to the same addiction clinic in central London, known as the Polly Varney Rehabilitation Clinic. Sherlock told Lestrade his findings, who then decided (almost purely to annoy Sherlock) that he was going to get an undercover policeman in on it.

Nearly two weeks, of meetings, paperwork and being dragged home by me, later Sherlock stopped attempting to scream Lestrade into submission and decided to take the matter into his own hands.

He decided to go to the clinic posing as an alcoholic and find out what was going on. To cut a long story short, Dr Polly Varney was using an electrical current to try and discourage user from drinking, shooting up etc. Essentially the patient would be asked to set the current to an uncomfortable but not painful level; the current would then be increased to a slightly painful level when the patient was shown a picture of their chosen drug. That was the idea anyway.

It seemed that Dr Polly Varney's parents and brother had died of alcohol abuse, so she had decided that she was helping the addicts by increasing the current to a lethal degree. In fact Sherlock had almost died before Lestrade's team burst into the building, but that's not the incident that I'm talking about.

Sherlock had gone into the building with a radio, but it had been taken off him at the door of the clinic, so I didn't know what the hell was going on. He could have been dead for all I knew, so after going frantic for an hour I had called Lestrade, and the raid had taken place from then on. But the first I knew about the situation was when Lestrade walked out of the building towing a panicked looking Sherlock behind him, who didn't even resist when his brother turned up and shoved us both in the back of his car.

To be honest I highly doubt that he even noticed, because he has this weird ability to have hysterics completely internally. An ability I apparently do not possess, which became painfully obvious during that car ride.

Anyway, when we got home, something else became painfully obvious and that was the fact that neither of us had been home for about seven days, let alone gone anywhere near the shower or bath. And the way I respond to stress, is to clean.

I commandeered the bathroom and sat down on the loo until I felt better and stopped whimpering. It apparently took quite a long time, because when I emerged from the self-pity cycle, Sherlock was knocking softly on the bathroom door and requesting use of the bath.

And I let him in. Mistake number one.

Because it turns out Sherlock's periods of slothyness are in fact, periods of temporary narcolepsy.

Only another thing that he failed to mention on The List. Oh and did I mention he can sleep with his eyes open?

In this case I heard the bath running from the living room and then a small splash. Oddly I didn't hear the bath tap stop running, as naturally I assumed he had gotten into the bath, but dismissed it as the water being too cold or something, added to which, Sherlock had pissed me off considerably on this case and I was too tired to go and investigate.

A couple of minutes later, the tap still hadn't turned off, so I went to the bathroom and knocked on the door, trying to rouse him. After a minute or so, I began to get worried, and seeing as I live with Sherlock you can imagine just how desperate the situation seemed to me. After weighing up all the evidence, I decided that the most sensible option was to break down the door and, should he be ok, the door could be quickly repaired and in any case, it would calm my jangling nerves.

After a few minutes and a sore shoulder I finally burst into the bathroom. I was very glad I did.

I found Sherlock fully clothed apparently having fallen into the bath, but worse, his whole face had been fully emerged in water, so presumably he couldn't breathe. I stood in the doorway, gaping for a few moments before, luckily for both of us, the doctor in me kicked in. I almost had hysterics again as I hauled him out of the bath and laid him out on the floor.

It was fairly obvious he wasn't breathing but I checked his vital signs anyway. No pulse and no breathing.

I hissed through my teeth and scrubbed at my face 'Christ Sherlock, what have you done...' I patted my pockets and swore loudly when I realised I didn't have my phone, I ran into the living room and dialled an ambulance, fumbling with the buttons on my phone as I hurried back to the bathroom, and shouted all the details down the phone at some poor girl on the other end who told me an ambulance should be there within eight minutes.

And now, to CPR. I pinched his nose and tilted his head back, before breathing twice into his mouth five times, before going back on the chest. Linking the fingers of my right hand with the fingers on my left and pushing down on the centre of his chest with the heel of my hand, sweat beading on my forehead.

'Come on Sherlock.' I begged, through clenched teeth. I winced as I felt a rib break but I knew I had to carry on. On the next round of two rescue breaths, I felt Sherlock's hand move and when I next banged on his chest, he gasped, opened his eyes and coughed long and loud. I blinked dumbly at him for a few moments until he recovered, before standing up composedly and throwing up into the toilet.

'Christ...' I moaned. Sherlock turned over and smirked slightly on the floor.

'That's a very high resistance level you have there. Doctor.' I slithered down onto the floor next to him, shaking like a leaf.

'I thought you were a goner there Sherlock.' I moaned, covering my face with my hands.

'Of course not.' He wheezed 'I have learned to control my bouts of narcolepsy to an almost efficient level.'

I looked at him, lying on the floor next to me, his lips slightly blue and his breath coming in grating rasps. Good god, I thought. What have I gotten myself into?

'Well.' I said controlling my breathing 'Next time you feel like randomly falling asleep in the bathroom and almost drowning yourself, give me some warning so I can have an ambulance of hold.'

'There will be no next time John.' He rasped 'I can control my narcolepsy. Piece of cake.'

I laughed shakily and rolled over, as sirens and blue lights filled the room.


	15. Chapter 15

**An: Hi! So yesterday I got an unconditional offer for a college and I am very pleased! So you guys get this.**

**This chapter was prompted aaaaages ago by the lovely Trakrat cos she is amazing and stuff, isn't it? Random. This chapter is kinda vaguely based on THUD! By Terry Pratchett which is a really amazing book and you should all go read it.**

**Review and prompt because you are all cool and awesome peoples.**

**Lily**

It was weirdly dark in this place. I had quite literally never been anywhere so dark.

Unfortunately it wasn't that surprising as this place had been turned into a mine.

The owners, Christina and Wilhelm Haagar had apparently been digging out of here for quite some time, since the tunnel we were currently standing in was complete with prop supports and eight foot high walls. As we walk down the tunnel, it occurred to me, just how sad this circumstance was.

Wilhelm and Christina had been prisoners in a concentration camp throughout the Second World War. During their time in the camp, Wilhelm had apparently fallen seriously foul of one of the guards who'd sworn that he'd kill him, who had later escaped prison. The couple had spent their lives in fear that he would find and kill them like he'd promised he would.

Somehow they'd gotten wind that the guard, Joseph Walzberg, had come to England from Germany. They'd spent the subsequent three years digging the tunnel and trying to escape from their house without Joseph Walzberg knowing. And they had nearly succeeded. Wilhelm's body had been found next to the opening of the tunnel, with his throat cut. Christina had been found next to her husband's body screaming in German.

It had taken less than three days for Sherlock to find this all out and act upon it, making sure that Joseph was arrested and charged shortly before he left Prague.

I shivered as we walked under their street. It was cold and damp like any tunnel will be, but there was something else. Something dark almost. Beside me Sherlock was looking around and, by the light of my small torch, I could almost say I saw fear in his eyes.

'Bastard!' I had been about to ask Sherlock what was up, when a sharp pain tore into my arm.

'Alright?' came Sherlock's voice. I didn't reply. I couldn't. When I had gashed my arm, something else had happened. It was like someone had thrown a bucket of ice water over my head, but instead of the feeling passing over my skin, it was like it fell through me. My throat had closed up and I found that I was unbelievably scared.

I had still been walking while all this was happening, but now I stumbled and fell to my knees as something began to take over my vision. All I could see at first was grey. I heard Sherlock shouting a long way off but I could barely hear him, and anyway I couldn't drag my thoughts away from what was in front of my eyes.

It was a parade of faces. All grey and gaunt, some of them crying. Some of them with wounds or scratches across them, sometimes screaming, but even worse were the faces that were simply blank with despair. All the time the faces were moving relentlessly across my vision, I had weird mixed images. Of yellow stars, purple triangles, barbed wire and nails. And I had absolutely no idea what was happening, but it was horrible.

I can tell you now that some of those images will haunt me until my dying day. They appear in my nightmares on a regular basis.

I don't know how long it was all going on, but as the vision faded, I found myself lying flat out on the floor, with tears running thick and fast down my face and Sherlock kneeling above me, shining a torch in my face and looking just about at the end of his wits.

'God John are you...?'

I didn't give him chance to finish as I launched myself off the floor and flung my arms tight around his neck, burying my face in his shoulder sobbing damply.

'Never ever ever make me do that again.' I wailed desperately.

Sherlock had frozen awkwardly in place when I flung myself at him but now he patted my back awkwardly and said 'Can you walk alright?'

I shook my head and sobbed a little bit more before saying 'I don't know, I haven't tried.' And hiccupping loudly into his shoulder. I heard the staticky buzz of a radio and Sherlock murmuring a few words, before swinging one arm under my knees and lifting me up. I honestly barely noticed, as my head was still buried in his shoulder.

I seem to have blacked out a bit at that point because the next thing I remember is waking up in bed. I lay in bed and stared at the ceiling for a few seconds before I heard the door crack open and saw Sherlock's figure silhouetted in the doorway.

'Come in Sherlock.' I sighed. He came in cautiously and sat on the end of my bed.

He sighed and cracked his fingers before saying 'What happened back there John?'

I opened and closed my mouth a few times, but I honestly didn't know what to say. I still don't. I haven't got a real explanation for what happened in that tunnel. But I do have an idea. Christina and Wilhelm poured all their hopes into their escape tunnel, not just hopes, memories and old fears. When an outsider came into contact with it, their fears and desperate hopes were transferred into me.

I had no appreciation for what these two people had been through in Germany, but after seeing what amounted to what they saw every day in the concentration camp I thought about what everyone who'd come under the regimes in the camps had had to suffer and slave through.

But what I said was 'I don't know Sherlock. Maybe it triggered my PTSD. You know, the dark and everything.' He nodded and gave a twisted smile, before turning and leaving.

'Oh and Sherlock?' I said. He turned.

'Thank you. Very much. For saving me.' I blushed.

He grinned wolfishly, as he does so often. 'Piece of cake.' He said.

**AN: OH MY GOD I have no idea if that's what you had in mind for that chapter or anything, so yeah I really hoped you enjoyed it and it wasn't too bad. Anyways, I will love you forever and Mycroft sends you cake if you review. I have spoken.**


	16. Chapter 16

**AN: so heey! I really do apologise for the previous chapter, that was... truly weird. But yeah, if the person who prompted that wants me to do it again I will. But yeah, I am currently on study leave and I get bored very easily so you guys get chapters. Good for you, not so for me.**

**Anyway, this chapter was prompted by GRock87 and the moment I got it my brain went mad, so it's gonna be great.**

**We shall review on the beaches, on the landing grounds. And prompt in the fields and on the streets.**

**We shall never surrender.**

**Lily**

It will not surprise you to find out that childishness runs strong in the Holmes family.

More powerful than Obama, cleverer than Voltaire and even more annoying than James Blunt, Mycroft Holmes can still make his brother pout like a two year old at the mention of a certain fluffy, blue stuffed rabbit. And on more than one occasion the phrases, 'I don't care who started it I'm finishing it!' and 'If you two don't stop it I will turn this car around!' have passed my lips. Needless to say, I had never expected to say those words in a row again since Harry had landed our three year old twin cousins on me when I was still in medical school. But of course all my life expectations fell to shit when I met Sherlock and this was, in no way, an exception to the rule.

To give a little meaning to that entirely random monologue of self pity, I will tell you that in July last year, Mycroft Holmes turned forty. And almost certainly to spite his sociopathic brother, he did not have a huge, what Lestrade had termed 'do' but instead had decided to have an intimate, at-home dinner with close friends and family. Which included Lestrade, Sherlock and, fairly surprisingly, me.

Anyway, it was the first time Lestrade had met Sherlock and Mycroft's parents as Mycroft's boyfriend (but if you call him that he'll hit you) and he'd decided that Sherlock and I constituted moral support so he'd therefore decided to blackmail both of us into going. It wasn't very good blackmail ('Next time both of you get arrested I'm not coming to bail you out, neither will I make the arresting officer drop all charges, no matter how much you swear at me Sherlock.') but after some thought I had decided that what he was proposing was in fact a very real concern and so had resolved to force Sherlock into going.

Which is why, on the afternoon of Mycroft's party, I was sat with my back against Sherlock's door begging him to come with me.

'John, I honestly see no reason why I should wish my brother a happy birthday. It is simply a sign that he has lived thirty years longer than anyone could have wanted him to.' Came the muffled, but miraculously condescending voice that floated out through the door.

I smiled 'Only thirty?' I asked teasingly

'I am given to understand that he was quite cute for the first ten years of his life.' I almost keeled over in shock. That was about the closest I had ever heard Sherlock come to complementing his brother in any way.

I sighed and thumped my head backwards on his door 'Come on Sherlock. Do you know how much time we will spend in police custody if Lestrade carries out his threat?'

'Yes.'

I waited for a while. 'And?' I prompted

'I have come to the conclusion that I don't actually care.'

My head hit the door and I groaned 'Please Sherlock!'

'No John. I absolutely refuse to spend the night in a room full of people who will either giggle and blush every time I open my mouth or try and get me to explain why I'm not doing as well as Mycroft. Either that or my mother will kidnap you and try to get you to admit we're sleeping together.'

I sat bolt upright against the door and blushed 'What?' I squeaked

'She has a bet with my aunt Leona.'

I gaped for a while before saying 'Your mother?'

'Yes.' Then a tutting sound 'Mycroft's got a boyfriend now, and she thinks that I should have one too, so she can get the votes of the homosexual population.' He seemed to interpret my baffled silence as wanting to know more about this weird little statement. 'She's the conservative MP for Barnsley.'

This just provoked more problems in my already tortured mind 'You're from Barnsley?' I said incredulously

I could practically hear him roll his eyes. 'No John. My parents live in Barnsley but as I was sent away to school including all holidays except the summer from the age of five I do not consider that I myself am from Barnsley.'

I shook my head to try and get this new knowledge to sink in a little faster. 'Whatever, are you going to get out of there and come with me or am I going to ring Lestrade and get him to do panicky sobbing down the phone at you like he did to me a minute ago?'

I got my answer a second later when I found myself sprawled on the carpet of Sherlock's bedroom, having apparently fallen through when he opened the door. He strode briskly into the living room, saying

'Of course I'm coming John. It'll be an unmitigated disaster.' He turned and grinned wolfishly at me 'I wouldn't miss it for the world.' Before sweeping out of the flat and banging the door shut behind him.

To be fair he was right. An hour later I was stood in the hall of Mycroft's Kensington flat holding a glass and wondering exactly how a party of nearly five hundred people could possibly be construed as a small intimate dinner.

I was predictably alone as the only two people I knew were Sherlock and Lestrade, both of whom were otherwise occupied, Lestrade having been yoked to Mycroft's side and shown off to various relations and Sherlock by being grabbed by several teenage, French cousins, who wore far more make up than clothes including the boys. No help in either of those places, since Lestrade and Mycroft had now disappeared and I didn't even want to know what they were doing and Sherlock was talking to a French girl in what essentially boiled down to a tutu and a bra, who kept trying to flash her knickers at him as she crossed and uncrossed her legs.

I was considering going and rescuing him, when several yards of pale blue tulle and chestnut curls turned up beside me and boomed 'Ah! Good man! Do you know anything about mating?'

After the initial recovery period I managed to say weakly 'In what context?'

She laughed like a foghorn 'No, no! I'm Violet Holmes, Mycroft's mother.'

Oh gooooooooooooddddd, went my brain

'And you are?' she asked blinking at me owlishly. I remember thinking that she had Sherlock's eyes, and that they leant something really quite pleasant to the rest of her face, like Sherlock, before the remaining quarter of my brain drove that thought out of my head my pitchforks and torches because I DEFINITELY SHOULD NOT BE THINKING THAT...

'Um. John Watson.' I replied somewhat shyly, sticking out a hand. She engulfed it with hers and smiled sunnily at me

'Aaaaah.' She said, winking brightly at me 'The doctor who's made my little Sherlock so happy!'

I blushed quite considerably at the thought that I had made Sherlock hap... wait, what?

'Oh yes!' she continued earnestly 'You know, secretly every mother wants a Doctor in the family, and now I've got one!'

'Sherlock and I aren't...' I started weakly

'Oh no, of course not dear.' She said dismissively 'Not now anyway. But you will. My dear little boy has that effect on people.'

I opened my mouth to begin a feeble attempt at preserving my dignity, when I felt a hand on my shoulder and Sherlock's voice said 'Hello Mother.'

'Hello Sherlock, darling.' Violet said, the cheeriness dropping from her voice to be replaced with a tone that could have frozen flame.

'John and I were just going.' He said after a few seconds of silence.

'Oh really Sherlock, walking out on your own brother's birthday...' she began, glaring at him.

I felt his hand tighten on my shoulder and his jaw tensed 'He suggested it.' He said, turning me round.

We both sauntered casually away, until we were certain that she couldn't see us anymore at which point we both began to run.

By the time we reached the lift we were both laughing.

'Thanks for saving me from your mum.' I giggled, sliding down a wall.

'No problem.' He replied grinning 'Piece of cake.'

**AN: haha, another chapter that ran away with me. so anyway reviews are only ever good news. Peace out dudes!**


	17. Chapter 17

**AN: Hey! I'm kinda nervous, cos I have a welcome day at my college today and the nervousness is manifesting itself as a chapter, yay! This was prompted by trakrat and I just thought it was so cute I had to do it.**

**And at this vital time, we must remember, never in the field of human writing, was so much, owed by so many, to reviews.**

**Lily**

From the look on Mycroft's face when he walked into our flat, the little tableau was one of the weirdest things he'd ever seen, and to be honest, I didn't blame him.

Sherlock was curled up on the sofa next to me with his arms around my waist and his head in my lap. If I had not myself been extremely uncomfortable, the look on Sherlock's brother's face would have been priceless. But as it was, all I could do was furiously whisper

'Your brother is an idiot.'

He wrinkled his nose and snapped back 'That is a highly simplistic way of putting things John, I am disappointed.'

I growled through my teeth 'Seriously Mycroft, I have no time for the condescending shit bag routine, I have been looking after your stupid brother for three days and I am not going to be able to do it for much longer. You are his brother so you need to pull some of the weight!'

I don't think he appreciated being described as a 'condescending shit bag' but, to his credit, he did come over and take a look at his sleepy little brother 'John, it is not productive to project all the anger over this situation on to me.'

I glowered 'Condescending shit bag Mycroft.' And then a thought struck me 'YOU have had chicken pox haven't you?'

He rolled his eyes and said 'Of course, John, do you think I would be here if I hadn't? One of the reason Sherlock didn't get chicken pox as a child is because I did.'

'What?'

'Whenever one of us got ill our mother would imprison us in one wing of the house with a maid until she was certain we were no longer contagious.'

I stared. It had been fairly obvious that neither Sherlock nor Mycroft had had a happy childhood when I met their mother, but I hadn't expected them to be actively separated by their parents.

'Aside from the fact that you came to the realization that Sherlock is an idiot, what happened?' he said

I pinched the bridge of my nose and sighed 'Sherlock had a case.' There was silence for a bit before Mycroft said

'Much as I know that should be a sufficient explanation, John, it isn't.'

'Sherlock thought that the daughter had done it and she is a primary school teacher. So obviously, he decided that we needed to pose as school inspectors, despite the fact that thirteen children had been taken home with chicken pox, and because he's an idiot he decided not to tell me that he hadn't had chicken pox. Anyway, he's got it now and is running a temperature of a hundred and three, because he is an idiot.'

Mycroft rolled his eyes again 'That's some excellent bedside manner you have Doctor. Anyway, why are we whispering?'

I gave him a pitying look. 'Mycroft, I realise that you spent a large part of your childhood away from your dear brother but you really must have realised at some point that he is not good at tolerance.'

'So?' he sneered

'Do you want to be the one to wake him up?'

Mycroft rolled his eyes 'Oh for heaven's sake...' and he reached out to touch Sherlock's shoulder.

I slapped his hand away 'Don't you dare Mycroft! I have just gotten him to sleep and I am not going to do it again!' I whispered furiously. Too late.

'John...' I heard

I glared at Mycroft

'What's going ooooon?' I heard Sherlock slur from my lap

'Nothing Sherlock, go back to sleep.'

'Why am I sitting down here?' he said looking around in confusion, with slightly glazed eyes

'It's where you wanted to sit.' I said, avoiding Mycroft's gaze

'..'m itchy all over.' He mumbled 'Can I have some more of that injection stuff?' hopefully burying his face into my lap. I bit my tongue and became very interested in the coffee table, in order to avoid Mycroft's gaze.

'In a bit Sherlock, just go back to sleep for now.'

'Okay.' He said happily, his face far too rosy and his eyes far too bright. We waited for the heavy breathing to resume before Mycroft, with a face, as Lestrade would say, like a bulldog licking piss off a nettle, said 'Injection stuff?' in a voice like January frost.

I felt the tips of my ears redden as I became intensely interested in a gas bill 'Yeah, you know... just something to help him sleep... won't do... much... harm...' I mumbled.

I risked a glance upwards and met with a gaze like a brick wall 'Much, harm?' he asked, his voice somehow contriving to get even icier.

I picked at a thread on the sofa 'Morphia doesn't... significantly... shorten his life... very often...'

Mycroft sat there in silence before glaring at me, appearing to make a decision, before he stood up and started to walk out.

'Wait, where are you going?' I said desperately 'I asked you here to help me!'

He turned to me with an almost reflection of his brother's evil grin and indicated the sleeping young man in my lap.

'Well, John' he began, increasing the amount of teeth I could see marginally 'Since you seem to be coping so very well,' the condescending shit bag was back 'I think I'm going to be leaving Sherlock's care to you.' I ground my teeth

'Mycroft I have had no sleep in four days, and he is your brother, I therefore think...' I felt Sherlock stir in my lap, whimpering slightly 'Shhh...' I said gently to him.

I looked up to see Mycroft smirking at me, he brushed off the legs of his trousers and silkily said 'John, taking into account your current situation, I honestly don't think Sherlock would be nearly as happy with me as he... appears to be with you.' He nodded to my lap, where I found my hand buried in Sherlock's thick hair. I quickly retracted my hand and blushed furiously.

'Mycroft please, I'm begging you...' I began in a desperate tone of voice (quite unintentional of course) he turned wearily at the top of the stairs

'You have been living with my brother for over two years now, and to be honest, when he is ill, he is far easier to deal with than when he is not. Having been dealing with him for that long, you can deal with him when he has chicken pox. Particularly since you've been drugging him.' He said sharply 'Piece of cake for a man like you.'

I stared after his retreating figure. Bastard.

**AN: again, have no idea where that chapter came from. I did drug my sister once when she was annoyingly ill ( I have amazing bedside manner) but only cocodamol, not morphine. Anyway, express some sort of opinion and review!**


	18. Chapter 18

**AN: this is another prompt from trakrat, which, again, I loved. Thanks to fantasy bean, my sole reviewer. I am seventy hits off 2500 hits this month, and I have straight shifts, 10-10, 3-10 and 3-10 this weekend so no updates for the rest of the week probably, sorry by the way, I am very sorry if anyone is insulted by me converting famous speeches so that they beg for reviews. Feel free to tell me if you have a problem with it.**

**Four score and seven weeks ago, our fathers bought forth, on this story, a new review, prompted (I'm running out) in liberty and dedicated to the proposition that all men are created equal.**

**Lily**

I ran up the stairs, barrelling through the door, collapsing by Sherlock's chair and grabbing him by the lapels. Miraculously, he continued to read the paper.

'Good evening John.' He said, calmly.

'Help meeeee...' I hissed.

He sighed in aggravation, crossed his legs and dropped the paper on the floor.

'With what, John?'

I collapsed into my chair and passed a hand down my face 'Well, you know Freya?'

'No, I am generally unaware of your girlfriends, John. But, nevertheless, continue.' I scowled at him and blanched as my phone rang. There was silence for a few moments, except the phone's shrill ringing, until Sherlock said

'Aren't you going to answer it?'

'It's her!' I whispered, like a man hang gliding over the entrance to hell. Sherlock reached for my phone 'NO!' I whispered harshly 'She'll know I'm here, Sherlock, you can't put me through that!'

The phone eventually stopped ringing and I breathed out again. Sherlock sat staring at me.

'What?' I said

'Is this why I have to help you?' he asked uncertainly.

I groaned and slumped back in my chair 'Yes Sherlock. I'm begging you.'

'You want me to help you, presumably to carry out some plan, because your girlfriend is ringing you.' He asked, raising an eyebrow

'um. Yes?' I said

'Why? If she's the last one that came round, you've only been going out about three weeks. She seemed perfectly nice, lives with her brother though and in a studio flat, probably need to check up on tha...'

'Sherlock, I'm not asking you for help because she called me once, I'm asking you because... well, it's probably better if you just listen to my answer phone.' I pulled my phone from my pocket, fiddled with it for a few minutes, before dialling voicemail and putting it on speaker.

The sound of high pitched excited chatter filled the room, interspersed with the cool robot tones of the answer machine

'Message left at 4:45 pm.'

'Hey Johnny! Listen, there's this great new restaurant at the end of my road, wanna try? Call me back!'

'Message left at 4:50 pm'

'Johnny? It's Freya. I asked you to call me back like, an hour ago and you haven't so just checking in. I'll try again in a minute.'

'Message left at 4:52 pm'

'Oh my god, Johnny. You're not with anyone else are you? I thought we were going out tonight! How could you blow me off like that?'

'Message left at 4:53 pm'

This time the sound of sobbing filled the room 'Johnny? Johnny! Oh god, you're cheating on me aren't you? Just admit it Johnny, you're with another woman while I sit here making dinner reservations, I'll never be good enough for you will I Johnny?'

'Message left at 4:54 pm'

'Johnny, I've thought long and hard about this, and I'm ending it. I just can't believe you'd be with another woman while I try so hard to make this relationship work. You're no good for me John Watson!'

'Message left at 4:56 pm'

'Oh no, Johnny! I've just realised! Here I am berating you for cheating on me, but of course, the reason you haven't called me back is because you've been in some horrible accident! Oh Johnny! I can't be a widow at thirty! Hold on Johnny, darling! I'm coming!'

Sherlock snorted 'Widow?'

I scowled 'Sh, there's more!'

'Message left at 4:58 pm'

'Oh Johnny darling, I can't believe that such a cruel thing would tear our love apart, but no more of that, my love. I can't actually find the hospital you're in at the minute, but when I do, I will sit by your bedside night and day, talking to you just to make you better, darling. It's what you would do for me, my sweetheart. I love you Johnny.'

I almost choked on my tea at this latest. Good god, we'd only been going out three weeks!

'Message left at 4:59 pm'

'Ok, Johnny. So I've worked out that you're not in hospital, so... I think I know what you're up to! Of course, it's probably meant to be a surprise, so I won't tell you in case you get all embarrassed, but suffice it to say, I saw the most gorgeous wedding gown in the window of the shop around the corner from the surgery. Hint, hint! Anyway, must dash. Because this is a special night, I'm going to get my hair done Johnny! Anyway, see you at eight!'

'End of messages.'

I looked up from my little misery circle, to find Sherlock staring at the phone in my hands. Freya had done what twenty years of bodies and crime scenes hadn't even hinted at. She'd shocked Sherlock Holmes.

He cleared his throat and looked up at me 'Well, she obviously has security issues.' I blinked as he carried on 'From the tone of voice and the fact that she's saved herself as 'Frey Frey xxxx' on your phone suggests that she has trouble liking herself so she projects the obsessive need to be wanted onto those around her. She's reached thirty, so her natural motherhood instinct is telling her that it's getting too late for children. Thus the assumption of a proposal. And she is chronically annoying.' I waited

'Because?' I prompted

Sherlock looked up 'I would imagine that's her personality.' He wrinkled his nose 'Look, John, you must have had some clues earlier in the relationship that she was going to be like this! Why are you still with her?'

I blushed and shifted uncomfortably in my chair. Sherlock smirked and gave me a pitying look 'Ah. I see. Is the sex sufficient to bypass her rabid desire to marry you?'

I flushed even deeper 'Look it's not just the sex...'

Sherlock rolled his eyes 'Condom in your pocket John, since the second week of dating her you've never returned from a date before nine the next morning and you winced when you heard her voice on the recording. It is just the sex don't even try to deny it.'

'Well, anyway.' I said, steering rapidly away from the words 'Sherlock' and 'sex' being in the same time frame. 'I need your help.'

He sighed 'Well, what do you want me to do?'

I fidgeted uncomfortably. 'Will you ring her and get her off my back?'

He stared at me 'You do know who you are talking to? I don't do emotions!'

'Please Sherlock!' I begged, adopting my most pathetic look.

He seemed to mull it over for a while, before saying 'Fine. Give the phone here.'

I gratefully passed it over and he began flicking through contacts, when a little metaphorical cube of ice ran down my spine. 'Sherlock... you won't say anything... bad, will you?'

'Of course not.' He said in a businesslike manner 'I am simply going to tell her that you have sexually transmitted leprosy. That should do it.' Silence

'Not good?' he asked

'Definitely not good.' I said gravely, gritting my teeth. 'Just tell her...' he waved his hands at me to be quiet and adopting a falsely cheery demeanour.

'Hi, is that Freya Goodwin? This is Sherlock Holmes... yes nice to meet you too... Listen, I have a little something to ask you... no, just... well, would you mind not flirting with my husband quite so much?'

WHAT? Goes my brain

'Yes, married... three months next Thursday... well, you see we've been having some problems, but we're going to give it another shot... yes, well there was a little incident with my ex... no, no of course not... I'd really rather not go into it... I'm sorry to disappoint you... thank you.. goodbye.'

He hung up the phone and grinned at me, as I sat open mouthed.

'There.' He said 'Problem solved.'

'No!' I finally blurted out 'Problem not solved! Problem only just bloody beginning!'

'I really see no problem with my solution John.' He said impatiently, getting back to the paper.

'Well it would be fine if I didn't...' he looked up sharply.

'If you didn't what?' he asked, sounding vaguely interested

I felt a blush rise in my cheeks as I quickly said 'Nothing!' there was uncomfortable silence for a few minutes, broken only by the rustling of Sherlock's paper.

'Well thank you for effectively ending my sex life.'

'Oh, I don't know.' Said Sherlock nonchalantly 'Dr Wilkes seems pretty into you.'

'Yes but he's a man, Sherlock.'

'I had noticed. So is Prince William. Didn't stop mummy and Aunty Liz trying to get me to go out with him.'

I stared for a moment, before resuming sarcasm 'Well, thank you very much.'

The paper rustled behind me. 'Piece of cake.' Muttered Sherlock vaguely

**AN: yay! Hope you liked it! Next time I'm going to try to get the slash in there, so, be warned! Oh and I only got one review last time. I'm disappointed in you all! *stern look* Please review!**


	19. Chapter 19

**AN: YAY! I'm back *cue applause* which I am exceptionally happy about because I spent the last three days apparently trying to provide first aid on The Somme (also known as the average british festival) up to my knees in mud. I don't think my uniform will ever be the same again. Thanks to the SEVEN reviewers for last chapter *big grin***

**So anyway, this chapter has no prompts, not because I don't have any, but because I was working with a really awesome doctor this weekend and he gave me some ideas for this chapter, because he's an army doctor. So this chapter is dedicated to Dr Matt in recognition of all the great work he does and all the help he gave me this weekend and generally.**

**Yeah, so a little background. I have put John in st John Ambulance for this chapter. Because a lot of people in the services are in st John when they come out.**

**Lily**

I dragged myself to the top of the stairs and rested my head against the cool wood of the door. It had been a long weekend and it wasn't even over yet. I honestly could not believe what people were willing to do to each other... the sound of erratic scraping on Sherlock's tortured violin floated annoyingly through the, previously comforting, wood of the door. Wearily I opened it.

'Good evening John.' Came the serene voice from the middle of the living room 'Boots off and that flattering high-vis on the peg please.' I smiled mirthlessly

'Mrs Hudson been at you again?'

'Hmm.' He said vaguely 'I believe she is holding the kettle hostage until we clean this place up.' I disappointedly wandered out of the kitchen, where I had been hoping to find a hot cup of tea. No such luck, apparently. I flopped down into my armchair and dropped my head into my hands. Good god, I could not believe...

For the first time Sherlock looked up at me 'Good Lord John, what are you wearing?' he asked looking down at my brand new and much envied SRU. Also known as The Asda Uniform.

I smiled tightly and said 'It's just the new uniform Sherlock. It's supposed to make us look more like proper ambulance men.'

He snorted, seemingly oblivious to my depression 'Well you don't John. You look like a tit in a green shirt, which is what you are.'

My head snapped back as if I'd been slapped, Sherlock had never been one for meaningless insults. And, in any case, I could really have done without it tonight. Feeling the unwelcome prick of exhausted tears against my eyes, I stood up and announced I was going to bed. Sherlock looked baffled but made no objection as I slowly and painfully made my way up the stairs.

When I reached my room I quietly shut the door and lay painfully down on my bed, sniffing hard. I had been so stupid. Confidence and bravado and an overwhelming arrogance at my own abilities. It was all my own fault...

The cycle of self pity was interrupted by a soft knock on the door. I made an incoherent noise which was followed by a creak as my door was tentatively opened.

'John?' came Sherlock's uncertain voice from the doorway. He carefully stepped into my room looking worried. I blinked rapidly, trying to rid myself of the tears and sniffed.

'What is it Sherlock?'

'I...I wondered what was wrong.' He said, shifting uncomfortably.

I sniffed again and scrubbed at my face 'I'm just... sad.'

'Why?' he asked sounding genuinely concerned.

'I...I just...Look, Sherlock. I think you have to stay away from me.' I wiped my eyes and tried to push past him down the stairs. But Sherlock grabbed my wrist as I went past and said

'I can't help if you don't tell me what's wrong. What on earth are you talking about? I don't want to stay away from you.'

I tugged against his grip and tried desperately to look anywhere but at him. I heard him sigh before he said quietly

'You've got blood on your shirt John.'

'Yes I have.' I said hoarsely. 'And it's not mine.'

'No.' He replied, suddenly crisp and businesslike 'And it's not a casualty's either. The height on your shoulder and the spatter pattern would indicate that someone was hit with something heavy.' I felt his hand run over the rough material on my shoulder. 'What happened John?'

I shut my eyes. I had been afraid of this question. 'An assault.'

'Ah.' Said Sherlock behind me. He pushed me slightly on the small of my back and I stumbled into the living room.

Sherlock settled into his chair and crossed his legs 'Go on.' He said gravely

I collapsed again into my armchair and ran a hand through my hair. 'We had a call come in about quarter to ten from security. Apparently a woman had come running up to the stewards shouting 'My son's having the shit kicked out of him'. I was asked to lead a snatch squad to go and get him, in case he needed any major emergency aid when we got there. We had to make up a squad quickly and I took two cadets, they made me get out there in under five minutes I had no choice!' I almost shrieked the panic returning as I thought about the sixteen year old girls I had lead into the field. Sherlock appeared behind me, which was strangely comforting and squeezed my shoulder as he passed I shifted in my chair and went on slightly calmer.

'I was told to approach with caution, but when I got there, there was just this kid, lying on the floor and I couldn't see anyone. So we took the trolley and... went in.' I noticed my hand was shaking again, so I gripped the arm of my chair desperately. I glanced up at Sherlock in the opposite chair, he nodded at me to go on with his eyes closed. I took a deep breath and went on 'There were no police there yet, but the boy was in a bad way, and I wanted to get down to it, so I asked the cadets to get the trolley ready... and the patients friends turned back up.' My voice hard started to wobble and I was going to start crying again, Sherlock opened his eyes.

The pity in his eyes was too much to bear. I dropped my head into my lap and sobbed openly. I sat there for a little while before I felt slender, awkward arms around me. I sniffed and buried my head in Sherlock's neck. He rubbed my back awkwardly before saying 'What happened?' very quietly. I hiccupped slightly before drawing back and wiping my eyes.

'They half killed one of the cadets.' I whispered 'The argument was about drugs. They thought she was police, so they began to beat up anyone in a uniform. She was only sixteen!' I wailed, dropping my head back into my lap. Almost immediately, I felt hands on either side of my face

'John, listen to me. It wasn't your fault! You didn't...'

'I always end up hurting everyone I'm supposed to take care of...' I muttered.

I felt Sherlock's arms go around me again 'John, this was not your fault.' He said urgently 'Neither was the stuff in Afghanistan, you have to believe me.'

'I know.' I sniffed 'But it was a situation I could have prevented.'

He hugged me harder 'I promise no will have blamed you.'

'Thank you Sherlock.' I whispered. And suddenly, it just seemed... alright. And I leant forward and pressed my lips to his.

It lasted about five seconds. But just that made me smile like a schoolboy.

I looked up and he was sat back staring at me. My stomach lurched, until a smile spread across his face. I stood up to hide my own, slightly sad, smile. 'Thank you, Sherlock' I repeated. And quickly left, to go back to my bedroom. As I opened my door I heard

'Piece of cake.' In a quiet voice.

**AN: AAAAAAAHHHHH! That was... not that great. But tell me what you thought. Literally, after three days of straight shifts, I will take practically anything. No, honestly.**


	20. Chapter 20

**AN: First of all OH MY GOD eleven reviews? *Falls to knees weeping and praising the lord* thank you soooooooooooooo much I love you all very much although trakrat's review made me giggle because Fanfiction profanity filtered 'Hard on.' So thank you to: Fantasybean, Boxerbee, Trakrat, Xarime, I heart venomous tentaculas, and sarahsecrett as well as those who favourite or followed.**

**So, this chapter does have a prompt, rather than being dedicated to someone I work with. Although it is inspired by an incident that made my friend cry, but made me laugh. Very hard. So anyway, this was prompted by fantasybean in her awesomeness.**

**My brain is still not working correctly so I can't remember any proper speeches, so just review. Please. My brain starts working again when you do.**

**Lily**

Has your past ever caught up with you? Mine has. Living with Sherlock it crops up quite considerably more often than I would hope for.

As you will probably have realised by now, when ill, injured, bored or simply petulant, Sherlock has all the wit, charm and charisma of a six year old child. Unfortunately this is combined with the vocabulary of an Oxford Master and the body of a thirty year old man-cum-spider.

But during the incident I am going to describe, he was deprived of his vocabulary (which I am ever thankful for) and well... I'd probably be better to just tell you.

I am not entirely clear on the details, but I had gone out for a few minutes to talk to mrs Hudson for a minute, when the sound of an explosion tore through the house.

Now, in any normal house, street or city, people would have been coming over to find out what on earth was going , since this was London, even a scream would have been ignored, this was Baker street and People were familiar with Sherlock and as to the house, see above. Naturally, Mrs Hudson and I waited for the noise to die down and then resumed our conversation.

It was only after there had been silence for maybe fifteen minutes that I began to worry.

On re-entering the flat I found Sherlock leant up against the kitchen counter with what looked horribly like... well I don't actually want to think about what it looked horribly like. Will it suffice that it was horrible?

In any case I approached with caution. Since this... thing had started with Sherlock, I felt considerably more obliged to help him.

'What happened, Sherlock?' I asked, picking my way across the sticky floor.

He looked blearily up at me and slurred 'John, my back hurts.'

Ah. Oh shit. I raised my voice slightly and I put my Dealing-with-children voice on 'Sherlock, can you look me in the eye?'

He raised his eyes to mine, I caught his chin and twisted his neck towards the light. His pupils were slightly dilated and I went to find my first aid kit

'Listen Sherlock I need to you to sit... WHAT have I put my hand in?'

He looked at me like I was mental 'I dno... John... back... hurts.' And then his eyes filled with tears as he tried to move away from the cupboard. I am ashamed, honestly, but I have to say my heart melted. And even worse, because concussion does make some people cute, he made those big baby-blues into puppy dog eyes 'John I need a hug.' Good god my knees went weak.

'Not yet Sherlock.' I said, eyeing the sticky black... substance that coated his skin and clothes.

'But Joooooooohhhhnnnnn...' he said, letting his head drop back against the cupboard. I looked at this man in front of me. Aged thirty, obviously in pain and now my... whatever this was. And now wearing puppy dog eyes and with tousled curls falling in to his face. I honestly couldn't help myself. I sat down in front of him and crossed my legs. I was almost immediately graced by nine stone three of consulting detective and sticky black... stuff, when Sherlock crawled into my lap, his skinny arms going round my waist and his head coming to rest under my chin.

I breathed in slowly. Even under the stink of... whatever, he still smelled good. I don't know how long I sat there with him in my lap, but after a few minutes I was aware of the stickiness under my hands drying and becoming tacky. I sighed and kissed the top of his head.

'Come on Sherlock, just strip, jump in the shower and I'll give you another hug ok? Please?'

He smiled annoyingly 'That is the most unromantic proposition I have ever received.'

I blushed fierily 'The concussion, Sherlock?'

He smiled again 'Previous to you walking in I was unconscious for a few seconds.'

I stared at him for a few seconds, getting more and more angry 'Really? You faked having concussion so you could get a hug from me?'

He rubbed his forehead and eyes 'No not exactly. I hurt my back and when I woke up I wasn't thinking straight. And I wanted a hug from my boyfriend.'

I flinched in surprise at this last. Sherlock looked up sharply 'Problem?' he asked

'No! No... I just... I didn't think you'd want to put labels on this.' I said beginning to smile.

He shrugged and got up slightly unsteadily. 'Thank you for the hug anyway.'

I sat back on my heels and smiled slightly, watching him walk away 'Piece of cake.'

**AN: Ok probably no updates from today, because I'm out all day tomorrow and Thursday and the torch is coming to my town on Friday so I'm on duty that night, so no update, sorry. But I'll do one at the weekend. I promise. Now quick, Go review! Please!**


	21. Chapter 21

**AN: Hey, sorry for the wait *ducks thrown fruit* so who watched the torch go through Guildford Friday? I did. From the back of an ambulance but it counts. And before anyone begins to worry (or laugh) I wasn't injured I was working. But whilst going home with my friend I managed to fall over and re-sprain my ankle, meaning that her brother had to catch me, and then I bled on their car. So not a great duty.**

**Anyway, moving on from my generally annoyance (I'm drastically unpatriotic) and clumsiness, this chapter was prompted by GRock87 and made me laugh. Just a note: In the north of England Nobby is short for Robert.**

**Ask not what this writer can do for you, but what you can do for her. *cough* prompt and review *cough***

**Lily**

Everyone has one in the family.

I'm not joking. Everyone. It's like an uncle Nobby. Everyone has an Uncle Nobby.

But everyone has a mental Aunt. Even if she's not directly related to you, you still refer to her as 'Aunty Insert-Name-Here' and all she does is judge, bitch, whine and compare her own Kids to you, making you feel thoroughly inferior. And her kids will always be the most spoilt little shits that walk under the sun.

In my case it's my Aunt Marina, who is a Health Care Assistant cum psychic back home in Durham. Which actually tells you all you need to know about her really.

Anyway, she works up at the hospital where my Mum worked and the two stayed friends, after my mother went to be a practice nurse at my dad's clinic. I will forever rue this fact.

Today's tale of woe, desperation and jam, began when I received a call from Marina. Well, I say a call, what I mainly received was a soaking. It seemed that she had recently broken up with her latest husband, a man known only to me as Uncle Max (which, at thirty nine years of age, really shouldn't be how I address men I've never met) and in her words 'Needed to get out of this town with its aura of sorrow and loss', known to the General population as Durham. And before I knew it, she had decided that she was going to come up to London with my two 'Cousins' Angel and Clairvoyant, and stay with us at Baker street.

Which, needless to say, provoked a very awkward conversation with Sherlock.

I decided that this needed Tact. A sentiment that Sherlock was definitely not familiar with. At all. Ever.

But nevertheless, as we had recently finished the last in a long series of cases, I reasoned that he would probably be in a good mood. And I was right. Broadly.

The night after Marina rang me, we were curled up on the sofa, watching twenty four hours in A and E, because Sherlock likes thinking up experiments he can do with the various injuries that present themselves during such programs. Anyway, he was ranting at the incompetence of an HCA that was trying to treat a serious chest infection with paracetamol, when I smiled at his final, biting remark and said quickly 'Speaking of incompetent HCA's my Aunt is coming down on Tuesday for a week with my two cousins.'

Good lord, if looks could have killed, I would have been dead before I hit the floor.

'I will not ask you to repeat that John, as I trust the evidence of my own ears. However, I am willing to concede that I was wrong, if you will only tell me that you didn't say what I thought you said.'

After taking the time to puzzle this strangely worded request through, I sighed 'I tried to stop her Sherlock. I honestly did.'

I heard a groan from beside me 'John, please. I hate children. At least tell me your aunt will prove interesting.'

I smiled. I had thought about this beforehand 'Oh yes. She's certainly interesting. She works as a Health care assistant to save up to pursue her true vocation. She says.'

'And her true vocation is…?' he asked looking up slightly hopefully.

'Um.' I hadn't planned for this. 'She's a…um…psychic.'

'Oh god!' Sherlock snarled thumping a cushion 'I thought you were going to tell me she was a murderer at least!' he complained, letting his head fall heavily into my lap.

I pushed my hand through the thick curls on his forehead 'It's just a week Sherlock.' I said soothingly.

As he rolled over he said something that sounded suspiciously like 'We'll see'. In retrospect, I really should have realised something was up.

The next day Marina descended on me in a flurry of orange frizz, wet tissues and self-pity.

'Oh John, dear, it's just so terrible.' She sobbed into my jumper as Angel and clairvoyant lugged several large suitcases up the stairs, under the watchful eye of Sherlock in full sociopath mode 'After all I gave Max! I mean, just before we got together I asked the fates and they said we would live together until we both reached a great age…' the rest of the sentence was dissolved into my jumper along with half a lake.

The night Marina arrived will forever live in my memory. And not in a good way. In fact it was so horrible, I will not even describe it to you, except for the horribly knowing look on Clairvoyant's face as she came down the stairs after inspecting my, obviously not slept in, bed, which was definitely a highlight. That and Marina's insistence that we watch Psychic today, throughout which she made comments about the presenter's cracked aura.

All of which came to a head at around three o clock the next morning, when Marina started doing tai chi in Sherlock's room, causing the former occupant of the room to get up, storm into the kitchen and turn something on that when 'Gloop'

Normally, I would have stopped, restrained or shouted at, him but after a night spent in a small armchair, punctuated at an obscene hour with the sound of whale song, I decided that anything was better than Marina trying to repair my aura again.

I didn't hear the annoying scraping of a spoon on glass, or the blender start up an hour later. I definitely didn't notice him padding noiselessly back into the living room with an innocent expression on his face. I did however notice Marina swanning about the kitchen singing toreador very loudly and spreading jam on her toast.

'Good Morning darling!' she said as I opened one crusted eye and tried to prevent morning being there.

'Good Morning, Mrs Luton.' Came the suspiciously cheery voice of Sherlock Holmes from the sofa. I hid beneath the blanket, oh God, something dreadful was going to happen…

Marina seemed to ignore Sherlock, apparently pretending that you could speak to some distraught woman's dead child was perfectly acceptable, but two men sleeping together was right down there with genocide. Go figure.

Anyway, Marina was wandering about the flat, muttering about feng shui when suddenly she stopped, put one hand to her mouth and slowly pulled something out.

What happened next is one memory that I will cherish forever.

Marina screamed like a foghorn, ran out of the room and up the stairs still screaming. There was a short, shrieked conversation, culminating in Marina running down the stairs with a bag in each hand, with Angel and Clairvoyant following close behind. As she reached the top of the stairs, she turned a tear streaked red face on me and sniffed,

'You shall never hear from me again, John!' before running down the stairs and into the street.

I turned to Sherlock who had taken up station near the window.

'What did you do?' I asked patiently

'I have no idea what you are talking about, John.' He replied silkily.

Apparently getting no answers there, I wandered over to where Marina had dropped the Thing. I bent over the little thing on the carpet and picked it up. It was a fingernail.

Suddenly daylight dawned. I laughed briefly, ran across the room and threw my arms around Sherlock's waist, nearly knocking him over.

He chuckled as I snorted into the back of his shirt and said 'Piece of cake John.'

**AN: I'm sorry if I offend anyone with my views on psychics but, there it is. You won't change it even if you do complain. Anyway, please review and prompt and tell me what you think about the Olympics. Should they have gone to Birmingham or is it OK that we're spending 9 billion to have them in the capital? You decide. (that's a joke. Although feel free to tell me if you have an opinion on this matter. Really)**


	22. Chapter 22

**AN: So, instead of tediously updating you on my life, I'm going to get on with the **

**IMPORTANT ANNOUNCEMENT ANYONE VAGUELY FOLLOWING THIS STORY NEEDS TO READ. So, on Friday, I will be moving away from Guildford. Normally this would not affect you, but it's a new house and, as such, has no internet. And BT are not coming out til AUGUST THE 8****TH****. It's like living in a third world country, it really is. (Chris Addison joke) I will try to write this at the library, but I don't know how soon or how often that'll be. Just a heads up. Don't shout at me.**

**Anyway, this chapter was prompted by Trakrat and, shamefully, inspired by Topgear. **

I turned my head on the side.

'Seriously?'

Lestrade glared at me. 'Yes! Seriously! Those things are sharp!'

I sighed in exasperation. 'Fine.' I said, snapping my gloves on and opening the car's first aid kit. I selected a strip of gauze and a tube of saline, and advanced on the disgruntled Lestrade who sat there pathetically clutching his, for want of a better word, wound.

I sniffed haughtily, because I had banned Sherlock from the car-turned-consulting-room and there was no one else to do it. 'You do know I'm a doctor right? Doctor. Not a damn practice nurse.'

His face screwed up as I washed the, admittedly fairly impressive, head wound 'Cut the crap John. It hurt. Wasn't me anyway. It was the work experience girl.'

I smiled slyly 'Yeah Greg. Sure. You're not a hypochondriac or anything…'

He spluttered into the cup of tea said girl had just brought him 'It bloody was!'

'Why did she call me and not an ambulance?' I asked smoothly. Silence. I started counting inside my head. 1…2…3…

By the time I reached six, Greg had blurted out 'Look, there was a lot of blood and it hurt, OK?'

I grinned evilly 'So not the work experience girl?' I asked innocently.

He scowled and ground his teeth. 'No. Not the work experience girl. Me, alright?'

'That's perfectly fine Greg. Now, do you want princess plasters or ones with Thomas The Tank Engine on them?'

He snorted 'Haha. Very funny. Why are there Disney princess plasters in a police vehicle?'

I shrugged 'Anderson?'

Luckily he grinned, instead of punching me, like he'd threatened to do a minute ago.

As I closed the lid of the first aid kit, I nonchalantly turned and said 'I'm actually surprised we haven't had the full force of Mycroft down on us yet.'

Greg smiled sheepishly and blushed slightly 'Don't worry. He'll be here soon enough.'

The sound of a furious argument floated through the door and he grimaced 'Or in fact, he could be here right now.'

I laughed 'I'll get Sherlock and get out of your hair then.'

He nodded his thanks and I clambered out the car. As we slowly wandered over to the warring brothers, Mycroft looked up, noticed us and began to walk briskly towards Greg.

'What did you do Gregory?' he asked smartly, staring at the (thankfully plain) plaster on Greg's temple.

Greg grinned uneasily. 'Well, you know they're filming an episode of Brit Cops here?'

'Yeeeees?' we all said

'Well… they put cameras in all the cars and those things are sharp…'

I began smiling involuntarily. This was going to be so damn good…

'Well, they're in such a place that if you bend over, you hit your head on them. And those bloody things are sharp.' He said, in defence presumably. 'But it's all fine.' He said quickly, looking nervously in Mycroft's direction. 'I asked th producer not to put it in, and he promised he wouldn't.'

As he walked away, presumably to avoid Sherlock's laughter, which had actually driven him to tears, I muttered 'Yeah, sure. They'll cut out the most televisually entertaining part of the broadcast…'

Sherlock wiped his eyes and managed to choke out 'He could sue them if they don't. They will.'

I grinned evilly, yet again 'I know. That's why I got it on tape.' Sherlock gaped at the black tape in my hand, before slowly smiling, looping his arms around my waist and pulling me in. 'You are evil!' he said huskily.

I smiled. 'I know. You seem to have taught me that life is much more fun that way.'

He raised both his eyebrows cheekily 'Piece of cake.'

**AN: hehe… Don't ask me. I seriously don't know. Please review. And also prompt. To make me feel wanted. Please? I will try and get to an internet connection as soon as is humanly possible. I absolutely promise.**


	23. Chapter 23

**AN: Hey guys! So I'm back after the move, unhindered by BT's shitness. Who watched the Olympic opening ceremony? I'm sure it was wonderfully thought out and everything but OH MY GOD what an hour of the most cheesy and horribly embarrassing affectations of britishness! Beyond horrible. I have no words.**

**This chapter was prompted by Trakrat. I need more prompts, get cracking!**

**I May have the body of a weak and feeble writer, but I have the reviews and prompts of a king. And a king of fandom too.**

**Lily**

'Sherlock, I'm warning you!'

The subject of my angry outburst sulkily sat back and licked the buttercream off his fingers. Rather unfairly this simple little sight sent a kick of longing through me.

'John, you have far more buttercream there than is even remotely necessary, I really don't see why I can't just...'

'No Sherlock! I have told you before, it is the tenth anniversary of Mr Hudson's death and YOU WILL BEHAVE or you know what'll happen.'

'What will happen?'

'No cuddles for a fortnight, we talked about this Sherlock.' He pouted adorably and, miraculously, fell silent. Alas this little miracle was to be shortlived.

'John, why are we throwing a surprise party for Mrs Hudson? She didn't ask for anything like this. I'm beginning to think that this is all another of your elaborate ruses to make me eat something.'

I waited for the blush to fade before turning around and saying 'When have I ever concocted an elaborate ruse to make you eat?' with all due feigned innocence.

'Last Thursday when you told me that Mycroft was doing a cake deprivation exercise and I could come to watch and when I got there it was you, with a padlock on the door shouting that neither of us was coming out until I ate a tin of alphabeti spaghetti.'

I thought for a moment. 'Oh yeah. That was a good night.'

Sherlock snorted. 'Hardly. You ended up face down in your pint singing a song about goblin as I recall.'

'Shut up and help me bake.'

'And then you took of that girl's...'

'YES ALRIGHT.'

'I don't think she thought it was...'

'THANK YOU SHERLOCK. Conversation ended.'

I turned back to the kitchen counter. In retrospect it would have been simpler just to give him a piece of cake.

**An: My god I am so sorry. Anyways, please review my lovelies, I don't know when I'll next update cos I'm away this weekend and then teaching juvenile delinquents the recovery position Monday- Tuesday and then the following Wednesday I GET MY GCSE RESULTS I'M SO DAMN SCARED!**


	24. Chapter 24

**AN: Hey. So, I'm bored of watching the Olympics (I don't care what anyone says, watching long distance running is boring.) so you guys get this. It's from a prompt from bumbliebee, which made me giggle so much I had to do it.**

**Can I ask you guys a favour? I don't want to plug my own work or anything, but I published a story on the War Horse fandom and nobody reviewed or favourited or anything so please go and read it and do stuff.**

**Please? And I promise to write a chapter for every single one of you. Also review this story. And prompt. I love every single one of you.**

**Lily**

'So, explain it one more time.'

I gave a long suffering sigh and said 'Sherlock, we are going to Lestrade's to watch the episode of BritCops that he is in.'

He nodded with the air of a child learning a basic skill 'And taking the bottle of wine is a social convention, yes?'

'Yes, Sherlock.'

'Why?'I sighed again

'I don't know Sherlock, it's just a thing you do when someone invites you over to their house.'

'Ok, will Mycroft be there?'

'Probably.'

Sherlock scowled and snarled 'Why must that man follow Lestrade around like a stray dog?'

I stared at him in some surprise, it was unusual for Sherlock to be this vindictive and moody. Sarcastic and arrogant yes, but spiteful, not generally. Mycroft and Lestrade's relationship seemed to be bringing out the worst in him, I have no idea why, possibly jealously, possibly a vindictive desire to see his brother unhappy in every aspect of his life. As I finished quietly reflecting on that, I realised we were at the door to Lestrade's flat. Unfortunately, it was one of those horrible housing estate association buildings and, typically, the buzzer was broken. Meaning that we had to lurk in the shadows and ring Lestrade to make him come down and open it for us.

He scowled and practically shoved us through the door 'Honestly you two, you do like to make a dramatic entrance' said Mycroft

'Yeah, you always leave things to the last bloody minute.' Supplied Greg, considerably less eloquently. I was shoved through into the tiny kitchen, still clutching my bottle of Chablis. As the first argument between Sherlock and Mycroft erupted in the living room, Greg joined me and handed me a glass.

'You had twelve seconds didn't you?' he smirked, lighting up. Shortly after the first glass broke, Greg looked at his watch and said 'Come on, five minutes, let's go and calm them down.'

When we had managed to get Sherlock to stop shouting 'Show me the evidence, Show me the evidence!' and Mycroft to stop pontificating on Lamarckian theory, we all settled down on the sofa to watch BritCops.

It started off promisingly with several coppers from the east midlands staring at the camera with terror in their eyes and talking monotonously about a series of robberies committed in boots stores around Birmingham.

Then Greg and Sally Donovan flashed up on the screen. I never ever want to see that particular image again. It is unfortunately ingrained on my memory permanently. Essentially, it was Greg in what is apparently his best suit. Unfortunately, it was bought as his best suit when he was about twenty. I think Mycroft enjoyed the incredible tightness but nobody else did.

And Sally, oh Sally. Where she found her skirt I don't know, but whatever shop it was in, I'm fairly sure it was in the belt section. Combined with an eye-watering corset and slicked down hair, it made me want to rip my own eyes out. Now it makes me want to kill myself but back then, with half a bottle of wine in my bloodstream, it was hilariously funny.

The next scene, after Lestrade had cleared the wine off the TV screen, was a scene with Lestrade and Donovan in a squad car. Mysteriously, Sherlock was grinning rather widely at this point. I really should have guessed.

Because, as Lestrade leaned forward to talk to the camera, he banged his head on the side of the camera and said, with perfect clarity 'Big stupid TV bastards, Fuck you aaaaaallll!'

Silence. And then hilarity ensues. Just after Mycroft fell of his chair and Sherlock started to go blue from oxygen deprevation, Greg, sitting fuming on his sofa, said 'Well thank you all very much.'

And I, to my lasting pride, said 'Piece of cake.'

**AN: HUZZAH! Please read and review and go read my other story, remember it's called All The Pretty Horses. REVIEW!**


	25. Chapter 25

**AN: Hellooo! I'm back again. Sorry for the long wait, but I was away this weekend and I was teaching juvenile delinquents first aid all day yesterday. Honestly a teenager in a uniform with a red sash across your chest teaching knifers how to put on a bandage? I may as well have written BEAT ME UP across my back. But it was a fairly good day. I was only called a 'F-ing posh c-word' once.**

**If you or anyone you know are ever in a situation like this, please do not hesitate to say 'POSH?!' and flip them the rod. Confuses the hell out of them.**

**Anyway this is a prompt from fantasybean that I have twisted a little, hope you like it :s thanks to all who reviewed on the last chapter. And GOOD LUCK to BoxerBee and all others awaiting exam results.**

**Please review. And prompt (I've run out)**

**Lily**

I believe, dear reader, that in a previous chapter, I made a reference to the weirdest greeting I had ever received. I seem to remember that it was from an obnoxious Harley street plastic surgeon and was regarding my new nose.

Whilst, at the time, it was an extremely odd comment to have made, it has been demoted to second. Yes, the weirdest greeting I have ever had in my life came just over a week ago from on Mycroft Holmes.

It was about three in the morning when my phone went off. The first time it happened, Sherlock rolled out of bed, hit it with his microscope and fell back to sleep.

But the insistent shrill ringing continued until, in exasperation, I picked it up.

'Hello?'

'Ah. Dr Watson. If you would be so good, please come over to my flat and as soon as possible please. We are having rather a… situation.'

The sound of girlish screams filled my headset and 'Oh God Mycroft, it's getting closer, help me, please help me!'

Immediately, I sat bolt upright in bed, much to Sherlock's annoyance, my head filled with a thousand images of Greg and Mycroft being murdered in their beds (or bed. That fact hadn't been established yet.) And I found myself assuring Mycroft that I'd be there pronto and attempting to put my trousers on both upside down and back to front.

As I flicked on the light in desperation, my six-foot-four of consulting detective surfaced and sleepily asked me what was wrong. I spent the next few minutes transfixed by the little ringlet that had fallen into his eyes and then shook my head to rid myself of what I call the 'Oh my god my boyfriend is so pretty, how on earth did I even get him to agree to sleep with me syndrome.'

Before replying 'Your brother says that Greg is in trouble.'

He snorted and dove back into the depths of his bed 'Is that it? Come back to bed John, forget all about it. I'll even help.'

Another twist of OMGMBISPHOEDIEGHTSWMS hit me hard, but I resisted and said 'No. but you're going to come with me, so that's sort of the same.'

He gaped at me in disbelief for a moment before simply falling backwards.

'If your brother is ill or injured in any way, I will let you laugh at him for a whole twenty minutes unhindered.'

He scowled at me, rolled over and picked up his trousers.

'Come on then. No doubt Mycroft will have called one of his little lackey-army members to come and pick us up.'

I smiled 'Good boy. And when we get home, you can have a treat!'

'I don't want a…'

'Think it through Sherlock.'

'…Oh.'

Two minutes later, Sherlock's deduction turned out to be right and we were bundled into the back of a black Daimler with all due solemnity and respect. When we reached Mycroft's Kensington flat, I jumped from the back, ran up the stairs and leant on the buzzer. Sherlock followed at a rather more leisurely pace. We were shown upstairs by a black uniformed maid and given the all clear by Mycroft to enter.

I don't know what I was expecting as I walked through the door, possibly ripped up furniture and pools of blood, possibly bloody handprints on the phone and Greg and Mycroft strung up in the middle of the room, possibly even a gun wielding maniac with my two friends bound and gagged in the middle of the floor.

But what I certainly did not expect was Mycroft to be sat on his sofa, with Greg cradled like a baby in his lap, sobbing pitifully, while Mycroft sang 'Rock-a-bye-baby.'

And that dear reader, is the moment that beat 'I'm going to take out of your head'.

'Um.' Was the first thing that came into my head.

Mycroft held up one pale finger and finished crooning the nursery rhyme. Meanwhile, Sherlock had joined me. I heard a strangled giggle and something being pulled out of a pocket.

'Sherlock, are you filming this?' I hissed

'Yes.' He mumbled back

'Well don't.'

'But we agreed…'

'There was no mention of filming Sherlock, put the damn camera away.' He grumbled but complied.

As Mycroft came "tunefully" to the last note, I cleared my throat and said what first came into my head 'What appears to be the problem, sir?'

A dry sob escaped from Lestrade 'It was there John! Right in front of me!'

Mycroft hugged him closer and stroked his hair 'I think you'd better go and see for yourself' he said in a low voice 'He is…fragile at the moment. In the bedroom.'

Just that simple little phrase made me definitely not want to go and see for myself, but Mycroft gave the patented Holmes 'I know what you're thinking and it sickens me, you prude' look and I scurried away as fast as I could.

I emerged a minute later I re-emerged and said timidly 'The only thing in there is a little spider…'

'It's sodding enormous!' wailed Greg 'It was going to crawl on me and… and… oh God Mycroft!'

'Oh Mycroft isn't God.' Said Sherlock cheerfully 'He just likes to think he is.'

The next four and a half hours were spent trying to calm Greg down. In the end we resorted to valium.

'Thank you, Dr Watson.' Mycroft sighed as he saw us to the door. 'I'm afraid he is… delicate about certain matters.'

I gave a wan smile, dragging Sherlock along to the taxi-rank. 'Oh don't worry. It was a piece of cake.'

**AN: YAAAAY! I'm not really happy with this chapter… ah well. If you have an opinion review. If not, review anyway. I love you all deeply, keep reading!**


	26. Chapter 26

**AN: Hey dudes! Ahm back again.**

**So I have no prompts left, but this chapter is for my poor daddy who, as he seems to be allergic to life, has been told to go on an exclusion diet. He can basically eat lamb, turkey, rice, grapes, courgette and sweet potato. It. Sucks. So this is probably going to be horrendously boring for you, but any well wishes to my father would be greatly appreciated, since it will possibly stop him moaning, and will give you a tutorial on how to drink expensive Whisky, or Whisky in general.**

**Thanks to all those who reviewed on the last chapter, and well done to A-level students who got their results today, and good luck to GCSE students who get them next week. **

**Lily**

I stumbled clumsily up the stairs and threw the door open as loudly as I could.

Unluckily, no one was there to hear it, Sherlock apparently being out and Mrs Hudson being deaf. So, my grand entrance impeded by the lack of an audience, I wandered to the kitchen and reached into the cupboard for my emergency bottle of Famous Grouse. Unfortunately, my fingers closed around empty space three times and I finally had to admit defeat.

It didn't stop me swearing loudly and kicking the cupboard in frustration.

Fortunately, I did have a backup plan. I crossed as fast as I could to the bookcase and picked up a bottle I found therein. I peered bad naturedly at the label and read 'Dalmore. 1263 King Alexander III' Hmm. Must be Sherlock's. But it'd do.

I opened the ornate cardboard box, and brought out a glass bottle bearing a silver stag's head. It was about half full and a tantalising golden brown.

I had just pulled out the cork and put the tempting bottle to my lips, when I felt it snatched from my hand and the cork put firmly back in.

'I trust that you have an extremely good reason for abusing malt whisky in that way.' Said Sherlock's voice frostily.

I rubbed my face and sighed 'Please Sherlock, I really, really need to get drunk tonight.'

'I see.' The voice defrosted a little 'Do you want to talk about it?'

'No. I want to abuse your malt whisky.'

He stared at me for a little while with his hands on his hips. Then he sighed and opened his arms.

'Come here then.' He said.

When I was safely settled in his lap, he pulled the bottle and two glasses towards him and poured out a generous measure.

'Right, first thing to do,' he said, picking up his glass 'Is to warm it.'

'Warm it?' I said in confusion. 'I normally put ice in.'

I shrank under his ferocious stare 'You are extremely lucky I am so very attracted you, or I would evict you from your comfortable perch there.'

'What's wrong with ice?'

'It makes the whisky go cloudy.' He snorted 'Unless you're an American of course. This whisky is un chill filtered, the ice will destroy the long esters and therefore part of the smell and the taste.'

He has this incredible way of making me feel about four inches tall 'Oh.' I muttered.

'You warm it to release the flavours and smells. It creates a chemical reaction that...'

'Less science, more drinking Sherlock.' I said, holding my glass in a shaking hand.

'Right, fine. Anyway, take a sip.' I did, and I have to say he was right. From the little taste I had gotten on my lips when I tried to abuse the whisky, this whisky would have beaten my old cheap brand hands down, but now it was just incredible. I could taste barley sugar and fruits. Oak and spice assaulted my nose and it slipped down my throat without the burn that I was accustomed to with Famous Grouse.

Sherlock smiled at my face and said 'Better?'

I nodded slightly, savouring the aftertaste 'So much better.'

'Good.' He said with his standard smug grin. He got up, depositing me on the floor and retired to the kitchen. I sat there sipping my whisky, feeling slightly disappointed, I had hoped that my master class would continue, but apparently not. Just as I began to get into that pleasant stage of relaxation that strong alcohol brings, when Sherlock re-entered. 'If you thought it was good neat, try it with water.'

I smirked 'If I am not allowed ice in my whisky why are we allowed water?'

He rolled his eyes with the 'My god you are so unintelligent why on earth do I associate myself with you at all John' look.

'The water brings the smell and the taste to the forefront of the palate John.' He raised the small jug that he'd brought from the kitchen. I didn't know what I was more impressed at. The Fact that he was so very knowledgeable about Whisky or that he'd managed to find a clean jug in our bomb site of a kitchen.

I took it from him and proceeded to pour a little into the glass. He grabbed my wrist after a second. 'Only a drop John, you'll drown the flavour!'

A sip later I was a convert. All the same flavours were there, but just so much more potent now. Just so beautiful, it tasted even better on Sherlock's lips.

Three whiskies later, I was sat on the floor, leaning again Sherlock's legs, while he ran a hand through my hair over and over. I had just reached the slightly fuzzy phase of drunkenness when everything feels wonderful and you can even forget anything bad that may have happened in your day at work...

'So why did you lose your job?' Sherlock asked quietly.

Apparently, no you can't. When you live with the world's only consulting detective you begin to expect it. I sighed and passed a hand across my face.

'How?'

'When you come home from the clinic you normally have your ID either round your neck or in your pocket. It was in neither place tonight. That and I came to find you attempting to get pissed.'

'Sarah. The official reason is because of my awful timekeeping and abysmal sickness record. But she told me that she doesn't feel comfortable with me around after our relationship.'

'By that she means..?'

'I saw her naked and then dumped her for a man.'

We both sat in silence for a little while 'I'm sorry John.'

I shrugged 'Not your fault. There are other jobs.'

'Yes but...'

'It's her problem if she can't deal with being dumped to make her ex-boyfriend happy.'

Again, companionable silence. 'Thank you for giving me a whisky master class. I really appreciate being told I'm wrong when it has a good outcome.'

He smiled 'You can try being...uneducated in some other things if you like.' He said huskily.

I blushed and smiled 'Maybe later. Thank you, for the beautiful whisky.' I said, lifting the glass up.

He smiled and pushed his hand through my hair again 'Piece of cake John.'

**AN: SO. Possibly the most boring thing I have ever written. Anyway, me dad says I have to tell you why the Dalmore is called 1263 King Alexander III. Essentially, it's cos Dalmore was originally owned by the Mackenzie clan and in 1263 the head of the Mackenzie clan was hunting with King Alexander III. A 'twelve pointer' or 'Royal' stag charged the king, and was killed by the head of the MacKensie clan. Since then they had the licence to put the Royal stag on their coat of arms, with compliments of the king. The symbol of the Dalmore is now the twelve pointed stag. And THAT my dear friends, is what you get when you spend your childhood touring around the highlands of Scotland going to whisky distilleries. As I sit here in my living room in Hampshire there is enough whisky in the cupboard behind me to keep me paralytic until I die. Which, if I drink all that whisky, will probably be considerably sooner than expected.**

**Please, please, please review and prompt me, cos then you don't have to sit through boring shit like this. It's a two way system.**

**By the way, there is no record of what happened to the stag. It probably ended up as dinner. Also, I meant no disrespect to the Americans, but it's true, whisky was chill-filtered so it can take ice and not go cloudy. Also, maybe Boxerbee will like this, not that I am typifying Scottish culture or anything. Stop talking Lily, please review. It stops me talking.**


	27. Chapter 27

**AN: Hello. So I have to give two pieces of news, one is that, once again, I am going away for the whole week next week, because my dear sister has, just today gone to Germany with the Navy (Cadets) , so I'll miss her a lot obvs. **

**And the other thing is, I'm possibly thinking of stopping this at thirty chapters, so tell me if you think that's a terrible idea or not.**

**So, enjoy this chapter, prompted by fantasybean who is epical.**

**Lily**

I honestly thought it might have stopped.

It hadn't happened in just so long.

My bloody therapist had said I was making wonderful breakthroughs as well.

Bastard boyfriend that I have managed to get acquainted with.

We'd just gotten to the crime scene and Sherlock was doing his typical, I am so clever everybody just get out of my way routine that we'd all come to know and despise. Normally, at times like that I could extremely cheerfully have killed him. In fact I would have handed the suspect a gun. But not today.

I had already been feeling out of sorts that day, the tiniest little thing was making me jump. Sherlock had dropped the butter knife on the plastic counter and I had almost shot him.

I had kind of had an inkling of what might happen, which is why I had tried to resist going on the case, but it was not to be. Sherlock plied me with promises of a clean bathroom for a whole week and Greg told me that he really needed a medical presence around that wasn't Anderson. Because Anderson had just been dumped by Donovan who had now started up a relationship with a uniform sergeant (Unmarried, unattached, completely unlike anyone Donovan had ever dated before) as a result she'd started doing her hair and smiling. On the opposite end of the spectrum, Anderson was wandering round unshaven and singing Bing Crosby's 'The thrill is gone' under his breath in hushed tones.

Anyway, shortly after we arrived on the scene, I was knelt by the side of a young man's body, who had been suffocated and pushed under his boyfriend's bed, when Lestrade knocked a glass statue off a shelf.

Now, what I remember is entirely different to what happened. I remember screeching metal and screams and blood spattered across my vision. I remember thinking _Oh God, it's happening again._

And then suddenly it came into perfect clarity. I wasn't in London anymore, I was back in Afghan. The smell of hot sand and hot blood and hot skin assaulting my nose. Blood on my hands, on my clothes on face, unable to stop the bleeding...

And then suddenly, unintelligible crackles through my headset, screaming an increasingly desperate voice _Mayday! Mayday! Delta six niner two Alpha Mayday!_ A series of fire orders shouted stutteringly down a microphone and then everything stopping, to be replaced by my own heartbeat. And the smell of the desert.

I remember feeling somebody's hands on me, obviously the enemy, so I struggled and screamed. I remember the slow motion tearing of my own skin, and the screeching pain it left behind. Watching my friends, people who hadn't even been there, Lestrade, Molly, Donovan, my friends spinning and falling as the bullets hit them. Horrific injuries... groans and screams of pain... and in the middle, me. Quite unable to help.

Now dear reader, I need you to know that my experience in Afghanistan was nothing like this, nothing like this at all. But that is the evil of PTSD.

It preys on your fears, on your paranoia and on your memories. All of this mixed together gives you a fireball of emotion and you my friend, you are just going to have to sit there and go along with the ride. Because nothing, nothing stops an attack once it takes hold of you.

So that was my perception of events. I came too about twenty minutes later to see Lestrade standing over me, Sherlock holding me and speaking to me quietly, wearing the most fear I have ever seen written across his face and Donovan crying softly in the corner. The first feeling was relief. And after that, shame.

No-one likes an attack, it makes you feel weak and stupid. Even worse, if there are people around you who don't understand the condition, it's very common to see fear in their eyes and that makes you feel like a monster.

Luckily this was not the case in this scenario. Sherlock and Lestrade are well aware, and have experienced the condition many times and Donovan immediately rushed over and gave me a hug.

Unluckily, I tend to be rather sensitive about touch for about an hour after an attack, so I flinched and gave her a look of abject panic. But it was a nice thing to do in any case.

'Oh God, I'm so sorry...' I mumbled

'Not your fault, I should have known.' Said Sherlock, looking angry, whether at Lestrade or at himself I couldn't say.

'But I...'

'Look at me John.' He said sharply. After a little while I complied, hanging my head in shame 'None of that was your fault. Both Lestrade and I are fully aware of your condition, it was Lestrade who broke the glass and startled you, which wasn't your fault and it was me who... who forced you to come to a crime scene. I knew you'd been jumpy all day, I knew the signs and I knew it would destroy you if you were to have an attack in front of your friends. It's my fault. And I'm so, so sorry.' By the end he sounded positively miserable.

I gingerly touched his shoulder and gave a weak smile 'It's fine Sherlock, just... just listen to me when I say I don't want to go on a case or something, yeah?'

'Yes, alright. I'm sorry.'

'I already said it's fine. Now can we please stop talking about it and go home?'

He looked up in surprise 'Yes of course.' He stood up abruptly then gave me a hand to stagger upright 'Lestrade the woman you are looking for is 5'6" with long red hair and blue eyes, she's a glamour model who made unwelcome advances on the young man and when he rejected her she strangled him with a shoelace. The boyfriend is entirely innocent except of lying to his family and not saying he was gay. I believe you'll find the young lady at Walton Studios in the east end; they do a lot of picture shoots for the Sun and suchlike. There was pink nail polish in his hair at bottom, you stupid man. Oh and, next time, check people's pockets.' He said scathingly as he drew a ripped poster from his pocket and threw it to Lestrade, on it was a picture of a young woman wearing nothing but red leather boots with _tomorrow 8 o'clock x_ scrawled flamboyantly across it.

Slightly shocked by his harsh treatment of Lestrade, I stumbled after him as he marched onto the main road in search of a cab. Naturally, he found one immediately (smooth git) and as soon as we were sat down, he pulled my head back onto his shoulder and said 'Sleep.'

I snuggled into his coat, suddenly desperately tired and mumbled 'Thank you for helping me.'

I didn't think he'd heard, but just I began to drift off, he leaned down and kissed me on the top of the head, saying 'Piece of cake.'

**AN: Hehehe... well. I tried my best. Same principle I will be applying to my GCSE results. Anyway, let me know what you think about stopping at thirty, I just thought... I dunno the quality has gone down I suppose. Anyways, I am perfectly ahppy to continue if you so decide. Review and tell me though. And gimme prompts.**


	28. Chapter 28

**AN: So, Hi. Again. **

**Just a quick note cos I'm going away in approx. 2 hours, but due to public demand and a call from my sister to say 'What?! You're stopping fanfiction?! Why would you do that you heartless bitch!' I will NOT be stopping this story at thirty chapters. Probably at least fifty, for xarime because she begged me and cried. Over email, but it counts.**

**But I do have to warn you, the rate of publishing will almost certainly slow down because on September the eighteenth the absolute delight that is A-Levels starts and because I am an idiot I have chosen to do Biology, Chemistry, Physics and Maths. Keeping the intelligence required to do all these subjects in mind, you would maybe think I'm smart enough to realise exactly what the hell I am getting myself into, but apparently not. Anyway, publishing will probably be limited to weekends and Friday nights.**

**Have a great week. I promise I'll publish when I get back, some prompts would be nice if convenient.**

**Lily**


	29. Chapter 29

**AN: HEY! Happy post results day! Who else got SHIT grades? That's not true they're not shit just... disappointing. 3 As, 3 Bs and 4 Cs. Unfortunately the As were not in the subjects I need. So needless to say, I'm trying to resit and sit A levels so my life can be summarised in one word for the next few months. And it starts with an S. So my feelings can be summed up in one very simple yet highly eloquent sentence I.E: FUCK YOU MR DAVID CAMERON. 'Oh we didn't interfere with grades this year at all. It's pure coincidence that A levels and GCSEs went down in the same year.' YEAH?! OH FUCK OOOOOOFFFFFFFFF! We may not have gotten very good grades but we can fucking ADD!**

**Not that I'm bitter or anything...**

**Anyway, this prompt comes from Trakrat. I have done this one purely because it allowed me to hurt a member of the government. Oh and I apologise for the increasing level of both profanities and sexual references. One is due to my results, the other is due to spending far too much time among my friends.**

**Have a good one, review and join me in shouting profanities at your bedroom ceiling.**

**Lily**

'So I repeat, what were you doing?'

'And again, I repeat, I'm not telling you.'

Sherlock snorted and flicked a page of his magazine over.

'This is a highly sensitive situation Sherlock, I would appreciate it if you would not ridicule me- ow Doctor Watson that hurts!'

I settled Mycroft's arm back on to the pillow in his lap.

Sherlock scowled 'Oh stop being such a baby Mycroft. It's not like you haven't broken your arm before!'

We both ignored him, as usual 'This is really nasty Mycroft, I'm genuinely concerned about what you were doing to break it this bad!'

'Yes, I'm noticing that Detective inspector Lestrade is suspiciously absent Mycroft.' Said Sherlock, the epitome of blue-eyed innocence. After a little while of being around Sherlock you realise that when he looks innocent, he is usually up to something. Particularly where his brother is concerned.

'Sherlock...' I said wearily.

'No, Doctor, he is quite correct, Gregory is absent and it is not usual for one's... significant other' A snort from Sherlock 'to be absent at such a time.'

'So why isn't Lestrade here?' Asked Sherlock.

'I believe he is... otherwise engaged.' Mycroft turned away and picked at a thread in the sofa.

I snapped the first aid kit shut and Sherlock closed his magazine. We have found lately that the stare works best in tandem.

'So, in what hilariously inappropriate way did you manage to injure yourself, Brother of mine?'

He told us. We stared. 'Really?'

'Yes.' He said rolling his eyes.

We looked at each other and raised our eyebrows 'One more time.' Said Sherlock.

He told us again. We looked at each other and burst out laughing.

When I could breathe again (it took quite a lot of time) I said 'Seriously? You broke your bed?!'

'Yes.' He said quietly

'Your bed? Five hundred thousand pounds worth of Louis the fourteenth oak, and you and Greg BROKE it?'

'Really Sherlock, do you have to turn everything into a dirty reference?'

'Yes Mycroft. It's funny.'

'Once more Mycroft.'

He sighed painfully 'Gregory and I were...'

'YES' shouted Sherlock and I, I really didn't want to hear about Mycroft's sexual experiences in full and glorious technicolour.

'Anyway, my bed broke, I got an arm stuck in the cross bar and when I tried to get it out there was a horrible crunching noise and I got Gregory to call you.'

'Oh my god Mycroft. It's even better than I deduced!'

I sighed in the long suffering way that I had perfected over the years. 'Go on Sherlock.'

He smiled at me 'From the way the arm is broken I knew you'd down it whilst lying down, the fact that you have only one break and it's fairly clean would be an indicator that the arm was trapped rather than it being broken by falling or having something dropped on it. And you're wearing mismatching pyjamas, which would indicate that you weren't dressed when the break occurred but got dressed very quickly afterwards, thus suggesting that you were doing something our mother told you not to. Oh, that and the fact that Greg is hiding in your wardrobe.'

'How do you know that Gregory is in my wardrobe Sherlock?' asked Mycroft tightly as I strapped the wound to hide my giggles.

'I can see his finger holding the door shut, it's hardly rocket science.' Sighed Sherlock, going back to the magazine. 'Oh, I see Justin Beiber has a new haircut. Fascinating.'

The shocked silence that followed was broken sharply by the tiny click of the wardrobe door shutting. I tightened up the last of the bandage and patted him sharply on the arm, causing him to yelp slightly in pain.

'Thank you very much Dr Watson.' He said in the strangled voice of one who has realised that the man who put the bandage on is still holding the other end and it wouldn't take a lot of pulling to make the world a very unpleasant place indeed.

'Alright, piece of cake.' I said, smirking slightly 'Just get your bed fixed and try to be more... gentle.' I shivered at the mental image that gave me and tried to recover 'Be careful Greg.' I said, raising my voice slightly.

Mycroft showed us to the door looking incredibly flushed and thanked us again. As we were walking toward a taxi rank I smirked again

'I'm starting to agree with you. Torturing your brother is fun.'

'See, I've been telling you that for three years and you always said...'

'Well let's just say, I'm starting to see the error of my ways.'

He grinned evilly.

**AN: So, after that angry little outburst, I now have a request for you guys. It's kinda cheeky but, if you could find it in your hearts, please sponsor my family as we are going to run a half marathon in aid of MIND which is a british mental illness charity. When I was a kid, my mum was severely depressed and my family now think I am at risk of depression as the illness seems to run in our famiy. Over the years mind have given us a lot of help so please go to money (forward slash) RichH (delete spaces) and help us raise a s much as we can for this brilliant cause. It doesn't matter if it's dollars, pounds, Euros or kronor just please help this charity, it's well worth while, I absolutely promise. And please review. And prompt. And feel free to leave a message if you've ever experienced depression or the like. It's nice to know you're not the only one, believe me. oh and please give this link to other people, or copy and paste it onto your profiles. and i promise i will do every single one of you a chapter all to yourselves**


	30. Chapter 30

**AN: hey! So I know it's been a while but here is the latest update, mainly to quash rumours that I was dead and being eaten by Alsatians like Bridget Jones.**

**This was prompted by GRock87 in her awesomeness. Yay the Paralympics! Yay Ellie Simmonds who has won as I type! Yay grumpy presenter in a wheelchair yesterday morning on channel four (He had a right to be honest)!**

**Out of boredom I got twitter and tumblr today. Follow me horton_rachael and also on Tumblr Not so ordinary Mortal.**

**Lily**

'Come on John!' I heard the impatient yell from a nearby alley.

'Sherlock *pant* I *pant* need...'

'Oh come _on! _We don't have time for this John!' and I watched the lanky git speed off at a frankly annoying pace. I leant up against a handy wall and stared after him. I honestly didn't understand it. For three years of my professional life I had trained with the Royal marines and I still couldn't keep up with a thirty seven year old man. Bastard.

'I am not a bastard!' I heard shouted from a little way in front of me. I shook my head and laughed.

My breath having marginally caught up with me, I followed Sherlock at a gentle jog. I found some small victory in the fact that even at a gentle jog it was only a very few minutes before I saw Sherlock vaulting and leaping a few feet in front of me, quite frankly it looked a great deal more impressive than it needed to. To this day I have no idea why, when I try to jump over things in the street, I look like what I am, a man the wrong side of forty trying something that is far too graceful for him to even attempt, while Sherlock looks like he should be in the bloody Olympics dancing around on a mat somewhere. It's the same when I attempt judo. I usually end up on my arse, winded, while Sherlock barely turns a hair and has gained a perfect ippon within a few seconds of the start of the bout.

And then, I saw the abandoned baked bean tin, saw the suspect kick it hastily into Sherlock's path and Sherlock's foot hit the polished surface and I have to admit, as much as I love Sherlock, and I do love him, (I would never tell him) just a tiny part of me went _hah!_ But then his back hit the floor with a sickened slap and I remembered the nine grand per year my parents had spent sending me to medical school and ran forward to my fallen lover.

'Are you alright?' I asked, falling to my knees beside the retching figure on the ground.

'Oh I'm fine.' He snarled, coughing miserably.

I ignored the sarcasm and ran my hands down his sides, searching for bleeding 'Does your neck hurt at all? Where did you land, on your back or your sides? Can you move your arms? What about your legs?'

He retched again and put a hand on my arm 'I'm fine John. I don't have a C spine or concussion, I was just winded. Oh and call Lestrade and tell him the woman was a false lead.'

I dropped the arm I had been holding, resulting in a soft crunch and a slight yelp from Sherlock. 'I wasn't checking you for a C spine or concussion,' I said, indignant at this doubt of my medical prowess 'What do you mean a false lead?'

He snorted, making himself retch again (I disguised my giggles as a cough) and said 'Honestly John. Didn't you see how, as we walked up to her she clutched her bag tighter? She thought we were going to take her purse, as she ran she reached into her handbag, I originally thought for a rape alarm or mobile phone, but she took out a sheaf of paper. Parking tickets. We look like policemen John, she has about a thousand pounds worth of unpaid tickets that she can't afford to pay. The victim was obviously murdered for his money, but she has thousands of pounds owing, conclusion? She's not the murderer.'

He climbed unsteadily to his feet and leant a little on my bad shoulder 'Advise Lestrade to check the last withdrawal from the man's bank account. It's a private deposit in a posh Swiss bank, they'll have the name of the person who retrieved it. He'll have his murderer by dinner time tomorrow. Piece of cake.'

'Fantastic!' I blurted, before slapping a hand over my mouth. To my surprise, Sherlock blushed and smiled shyly. He reached down and kissed the top of my head.

'Thank you.' He said, turning away. As he walked away, the aristocratic self assurance returned to his step and he jumped a low wall. I laughed again and started to run past him. I didn't know where the stupid, romantic feeling had come from, but I slapped him lightly on the back as I passed him 'Race you!' I called back.

'You'll never beat me!' he smirked speeding up

'Want a bet?' I called 'Piece of cake!'

**AN: I don't know where that last part came from but hey ho. Anyways, review please please please.**


	31. Chapter 31

**AN: So hey.**

**I decided I was letting you guys and therefore myself down by not posting nearly often enough, especially since I don't start college for another two days. So you get another update today, yay!**

**This is from a prompt by Trakrat, I'm running out again so we may be back to chapters about my life soon. You've all been warned.**

**Lily**

Sherlock hugged me around the waist and said coaxingly, 'But it's for a case John! Just one night I promise...'

I folded my arms and continued to refuse to look at him 'I still don't want you doing this Sherlock!'

He pouted and ran a hand up my back 'He might not even be a murderer John, I really don't see what your objection is.'

I gritted my teeth and continued facing away. I supposed I had been seriously punching above my weight when I had expected the... relationship between myself and Sherlock, to include only myself and Sherlock. To any normal, rational person, that may not seem like an overly complicated demand, but as I was warned about when I met him, every relationship Sherlock has had has included him, another person and The Game.

Normally, I was fine with it. I'd gotten used to playing second fiddle to random corpses and cold cases, but this one was different. I had no idea what he'd done, I'd been away when the body was found, but I'd returned to find Sherlock in our living room, staring once again at the mirror which was covered with various scraps of paper and a small bit of a CD, and to the news 'I've got a date, John.'

Needless to say, I did my fruit loop. When Sherlock had calmed me down, he explained that he'd been flirting with the guy who they thought had committed the murder to try and get close to him. He'd eventually been asked out on a date and would be wearing a wire throughout the encounter.

'Why didn't you just say that you git?' I had wailed, slumped in my chair as he knelt in front of me. 'Christ, you are not good for my blood pressure!'

In the present day, I had sworn three days ago that I was fine and that I honestly didn't care whether Sherlock went on a date or not. But increasingly as the day grew closer, I had become increasingly not fine.

I sighed down at Sherlock's baby blue puppy-dog eyes. 'I'm sorry Sherlock, I just don't like it.

He sighed and sat up. 'Then you leave me no choice.' He said sadly, I squeezed my eyes shut _Oh God... _whined an internal voice _this is it. He's going to leave you; you knew you'd never be able to hold onto him..._

'Come with me John.'

What? 'Sorry, what?'

'Come with me. I'll be wearing an earpiece and a radio, sit outside in the car with Lestrade and tell me what to do. As you are aware, I cannot flirt even remotely. I will be requiring some... assistance...'

I smirked annoyingly 'Sorry, can you repeat that for me?'

He huffed and looked away 'I need your help John.'

'One more time.'

'No.'

'Oh go on...'

'Shut up and come here.' He said serenely.

So, for my sins, I found myself stuck in a freezing police car with Lestrade, Donovan and a whole load of technology I didn't understand. To be fair, they were fairly good companions and as it was leading technology in policing, it all had Tetris and Donovan had some cards. I actually had trouble keeping my mind on the job, but as soon as I saw Sherlock walk in and shake hands with a young man, I forgot all about playing poker and focussed on his date.

He was a fairly unassuming looking young man, with red hair and dark jeans. Tall as Sherlock but not as skinny, he looked far more like someone Sherlock would go for than me. My heart plummeted into my shoes as Greg wired me up to a radio.

I smiled my and listened to the general conversation coming through my earpiece. After a little while, I heard Sherlock cough gently, our signal that he needed help. I floundered for a while, but eventually said 'Talk about the news, get him talking about the case.'

I heard Sherlock's relieved small talk take a different turn. I turned back to the computer screen to observe them. Big mistake.

Sherlock's date was leaning slightly in over the table, toying with the rim of his wine glass and talking every so often. Sherlock himself was also leant in, but looked less love struck and more keen, in the five minutes I watched the screen, I saw Sherlock subtly top up his date's wine glass twice. Clever, I thought, rolling my eyes.

Another hour later, we were all bored. Sherlock hadn't managed to get anything interesting out of the man, despite putting two bottles of wine into his blood stream, and the only advice I'd been able to give was 'Tell him you like his jacket.'

Donovan was curled up under my jacket and Lestrade had gone for a fag, so it was left to me to cover the radio. Suddenly, in my ear I heard

'Hello? Hello Lestrade?'

I pressed the PTT and said 'Yes Sherlock, what is it?'

There was a snort and Sherlock said 'I know he's trying to forget something, the excessive drinking and aversion to talking about the news would suggest it, he has ink on his hands, a band of white skin on his left ring finger and he's been talking about nothing but his career all night, no he's not the murderer, but he had something to do with it. Oh and he's cheating on his wife with me.'

I ground my teeth in frustration at the distant figure of Lestrade, quietly smoking against a wall. 'Look can't you just... try and get him to open up a bit more?'

'Really? Are you sure?' he asked doubtfully.

'Yes, just slip it in there. Mention the victim's name, try and get close to him.'

Upon reflection, that was quite a stupid thing to say. Sherlock was a damn good actor when he wanted to be and I really should have thought about that when I told him to 'get close to him.'

I watched with a slight sense of dread as Sherlock sat back down at the table. Despite having at least a litre of alcohol in him, his companion didn't seem that drunk.

After a bit of small talk, Sherlock casually said 'Do you know Janie Lauley? Used to work for YSL in London?'

The man opposite him twitched slightly, before smiling tightly and saying 'I can't say I'm very familiar with the name. Why do you ask?'

Sherlock smiled and let his hand ghost across his companion's knuckles. 'Well dressed man like you?' he said, pouting slightly 'I thought you'd be certain to know her.'

I clenched my fists slightly and tried to breath slowly and calmly, Sherlock was cooing over this man again in my ear and I just barely resisted the temptation to tear the bloody thing right off. I didn't even pay attention to the slightly suggestive conversation over the earpiece, instead electing to moodily play brick breaker on Lestrade's laptop.

Suddenly, I heard a soft drunken slur come over the line.

'I'll tell you a little secret...' the voice slurred and I pressed the record button on the laptop in front of me.

'I did know Janie.' Came the soft voice over the tinny speakers.

'Really?' murmured Sherlock

'Yep. She was my wife's friend. Bit more than friend actually.' I watched the young man slump back in his chair. 'I found them together, you know. Linda told m-me it had been going on a little while. I sent a letter to that slut's husband.' He snarled 'And next thing I know she's dead.' He sighed 'I didn't tell the police that. Don't wanna go to prison...'

Sherlock smiled slightly, 'Don't worry mate. Can you tell me what you wrote?'

I threw the car door open and yelled 'Lestrade! You'll want to see this!'

Twenty minutes later, Sherlock was walking out the back door of the restaurant, his partner having been politely asked if he wouldn't mind answering a few questions. Lestrade wrung his hand and thanked him.

'Piece of cake.' He replied casually.

As we wandered home, Sherlock stopped me and said 'Look John, you do know that was all play acting don't you?'

I shrugged 'You seemed very comfortable tonight.' I replied bitterly.

Sherlock rolled his eyes and sighed 'Please John. He was so boring. Not my type at all.'

I mumbled something about him being far more suitable than me. I may or may not also have made a childish comment about height.

Sherlock made a noise like an angry cat, rolled his eyes and pulled me in by the lapels of my jacket and kissed to within about an inch of my life. He dropped me a couple of inches and growled 'Stop being childish. We both know you're the only one who will even remotely put up with me.'

And that, ladies and gentleman, is just about as close as Sherlock gets to saying 'You are my one.'

I walked away from the, frankly foul mouthed, woman yelling obscenities out of her front room feeling extremely happy. 'What was his name anyway?' I asked vaguely.

Sherlock smirked 'Benedict.'

I laughed and made a face 'Benedict?' I asked incredulous.

'Yes. He was rather posh.' Sherlock said, wandering off.

I stared after my Harrow educated, aristocratic boyfriend. 'Idiot.' I muttered, following.

**AN: Hahaha, Ladies and Gentlemen, that is what you get when you try to update and instead find yourself watching the Last Leg. I love that show. ParalympicsGB!**


	32. Chapter 32

**AN: OH MY GOD! I am so very sorry it has taken me this long to update!**

**You see, AS levels are eating my life right now.**

**This chapter has quite a few people's prompts in it. Thanks to all who reviewed on the last chapter, I hope you all had a great summer! Review and prompt peeps. Come on. It's my birthday!**

**Lily**

I nearly had a heart attack when Sherlock told me what he was doing.

'Sherlock! What on earth do you think you are doing?'

The snort of derisive laughter travelled well over the phone line. 'Really John. Are you honestly going to be so childish about something so small?'

'It's the law Sherlock!'

I could practically hear the petty scowl 'You know Mycroft only got that one passed to annoy me. It's like the smoking ban all over again...'

I pinched the bridge of my nose and started to count to ten, my coping mechanism when Sherlock made me want to throw things at walls. 'Do you have any idea how many people I've had to pick up after horrible car accidents? Do you know how many _fatalities_, I've attended?'

He sighed again 'John, I...'

'And can you tell me what the common denominator was Sherlock?' I asked patiently.

He made a sulky noise down the phone.

'They were all talking on their mobiles at the time of the crash. Now put your phone down.'

'But John, it's only driving. Seventeen year olds can do it!'

'I don't care Sher... why are you driving anyway? I thought you said London has one of the best public transport networks in the world?'

I heard some indistinct mumbling about a case somewhere over the grumpy overtones.

'But can't you...' I took the phone off my ear and breathed in. I was carrying on the conversation and thereby letting him win. 'Sherlock. Put the bloody phone down. Now!'

'Oh for God's sake John!' I heard him snarl 'It's perfectly...'

A squeal of brakes, a muffled profanity and a thud, presumably as the phone hid the floor. Then the steady _Beep... beep... beep _of the dial tone.

'Sherlock? Can you hear me? Sherlock?' I asked, gripping the bottom of the phone as the panic started rising in me.

I quickly dialled again, at receiving no response._ This number is unavailable at this time. Please..._

Swearing I ran out the door, hung up the call and rang Lestrade. 'Hello John.'

'Greg!' I wheezed down the phone. 'I think Sherlock's been in an accident...'

'What?! Slow down John, do you know where he was at the time?'

'Camden, I think...' I panted

'Look, call Mycroft, I'll check all the reports, if I get any news before Mycroft does I'll give you a call okay? Where are you going at the minute?'

'I'm going...' my phone beeped at me, signalling another call 'Speak of the devil, Mycroft's just called me, I'll get back to you soon.'

I switched the call and carried on running towards Camden 'Mycroft, what have you got for me?'

'He was travelling straight through Camden along the Transot Road. There was a crash caused by the other driver, I'm sending a car for you.' Suddenly Mycroft's clipped tones went weak 'John... it was a bad smash... I don't know how bad he is...'

'I'll find him Mycroft, don't worry... TAXI!' I yelled, stepping off the pavement in my panic.

My phone rang again in my pocket. Lestrade.

'I take it Mycroft's told you where they are then? According to this report it's been police cordoned, that means it's bad John. I can't get down there but I'll keep an eye. Show the guy on the gate that police surgeon's ID I gave you last month, they'll let you in.'

o0o

I bit my nails all the way to Camden and asked the cabby at least five times if we could go any faster.

When we finally reached the road Mycroft told me about, we found it closed off by the police. I jumped out of the cab before it stopped fully and ran up to the policewoman standing by the tape. I showed her my NHS and police surgeon's ID.

'Dr John Watson. My partner, Sherlock Holmes, was involved in the accident...'

The woman grabbed my arm and dragged me through the tape. 'We've got no medics in here, the ambulances are stuck in traffic, we need you to take a look at the casualties, only one. One of the drivers was DOA...'

I felt the blood drain from my face 'Which driver was it?' I squeaked, feeling as though I might be sick. The woman looked at my face and broke into a run

'We don't know the identities of either casualty sir.' She led me over to a man lying on the floor, in a spreading pool of blood.

'Will you be alright looking at him on your own sir?'

'Yes, yes fine... oh hell! What went on here?'

I found myself staring down at a man, spread out on the pavement. He was pale and completely out of it, a long trail of dark red blood running down his cheek and dripping slowly onto the pavement. _Oh thank god! _Was the first thought in my head. It was Sherlock.

He wasn't dead, but he was very badly hurt, and it was all my fault. I stood there a few seconds, watching the blood soaking slowly into his white shirt. Even when my medical instinct returned to me, I found that I couldn't think of this bloodied and broken man as my Sherlock without becoming insensible. I had to absolutely disassociate myself with him, he became just another patient to me.

He had a massive head trauma, a long gash over the bridge of his broken nose and part of his brow bone crushed. His wrist was bent backwards and a long gash stretching back from the palm of his hand.

'Oh Christ...' I muttered 'Why's this man been moved? You might have caused a serious spinal injury!'

'Sorry sir, I...'

'Never mind, just get me your emergency kit. Quickly! I'm going to need some help over here!'

I started checking the man's vitals, breathing slow and shallow, pulse weak. _Getting weaker..._

'Hurry, come on, I need that kit! And an ETA on that ambulance!'

A cadet had run up behind me carrying the kit. 'Ye gods, are you old enough to operate this stuff?' I asked her, frantically trying to stop the man bleeding.

'Yes sir, I used to be in st John, I'm a lot more qualified than most of them.'

'Good, can you start... stand by!' I snatched my hands away from him as his breathing became grinding and erratic. 'Kid, can you get the oxygen out? I think we're going to need to it, and rig him up to an ECG, quickly please!'

The kid and I managed to get him rigged up to the machine just in time for the bloody thing to stop registering a pulse. 'Stop the bleeding, clinical pressure, ok? I'm going to proceed with CPR, be prepared to swap.' I raised my voice 'I need a cylinder of oxygen over here, Now!'

I stripped my jacket off and fisted my hands together on the man's chest. Every time I breathed out, I checked the ECG. I found myself whispering encouragement to him and the world at large while the kid set the AED up. For the first time since I'd seen the man lying on the pavement I was thinking of this man as Sherlock. And begging for him to live._ Come on Sherlock, Make it back... I can't do this without you..._

'AED ready sir!'

'Come on then Kid, hook him up.' She hooked him up to the wires coming out of the little machine and pressed the charge button. _Shock advised... please stand clear... Shocking..._

The body convulsed and we both glanced at the ECG. Nothing. I went back to pounding on his chest, while the machine was charging up.

_Please stand clear... _he convulsed again, and took a breath, his eyes opening wide. I stopped staring at the gasping man on the floor.

'Sherlock?' I whispered, he wasn't conscious but he was definitely alive. It was at that point that the ambulance chose to come wailing into the cordoned off area. I barely noticed, I was watching Sherlock's chest rise and fall with the breaths he was taking. On impulse I pulled the kid towards me in a hug, 'He's alive kid, we saved him!'

The kid was crying as the crew pulled out a stretcher and proceeded to get Sherlock into the back, eventually one of them grabbed me by the elbow and pushed me into the ambulance. Eventually one of the technicians came and sat beside me, talking to me and trying to explain what was going on.

All I ended up replying was 'Yeah, piece of cake.' I was simply watching the soft rise and fall of Sherlock's chest and just appreciating it. He was definitely breathing. I hadn't lost him.

**AN: Sherlock was lying. London has crap personal transport. Anyway, I'm sorry about being so long updating. College and life started and now I'm having an ongoing scary moment at the doctors, so I'm very sorry. But please forgive. And review.**


	33. Chapter 33

**AN: For everyone who's stood by me the last few days. And also off a prompt by bumblie bee.**

**Lily**

I hope it never happens to you.

I desperately do.

I hope you never have to sit outside a room waiting for that person. That person who can make you smile when you just want to cry, that person who made you better, the only one who really sees you. The only one who could ever make you cry like this. Crying so hard you don't have room for the breaths in between.

I hope you never have to sit there and pray for three hours. I hope you don't get shoved out of the crash room because the little _shit_ of a student won't believe you're a doctor and no-one understands that you need to be there, you need to see him come back to life, or there will always be a little part of you that believes he's still dead.

I hope you never sit there and listen to muffled yells that make no sense, feeling your heart stop along with his every time you here _stand clear!_ And then start again as the medical jargon begins flying across the room.

Because no matter how terrifying it is, no matter how bone chillingly horrified you are when you've no idea what's going on, it is a million times worse when the medical jargon starts flying and _you know_ _exactly what they're on about_.

I hope you never hear the defibrillator charge for the third time, and the cool robotic voice _shock advised. Please stand clear._ I hope you never have to run away from the room at that point. I hope you never have to remember what I did. After three shocks, they don't try any more...

I hope you never have to sit on the floor of a toilet stall making bargains, prayers, _pleading_ with anyone and everyone just to give yourself a fighting chance at believing you didn't make this happen.

I hope you never have to call your sadistic sort – of – brother – in – law to make the harassed nurse on the front desk believe you're that person's family. I hope you never have to sit through some pompous little bastard of a junior Doctor explaining what's going to happen, when you know and you were taking care of this sort of thing when he had spots and a pocket protector.

I hope you never have to look at yourself in the mirror and wonder if you really deserve that person. Because you'll look in the mirror and you'll see the lines on your face and the grey in your hair and you'll wonder what would have happened if you were younger, fitter, faster... and you'll wonder what you did wrong. And somewhere, somewhere in the dark little huddled mass of fear your brain has become, you will accept responsibility.

Even when it's not, you will find a way to make it your fault. You'll think it through, you'll over think it and you'll under think it until you're mind stops playing the _what if_ game and starts playing the _stupid bastard, you should have done that_ game.

I hope you never have to do any of that.

Once upon a time I hoped I would never have to.

But in life, like in exams, we don't always get what hope for. I didn't. I hope you do.

**AN: I'm sorry. Truly, I am. Please review.**


	34. Chapter 34

**AN: Yay another chapter! Angsty though.**

**So for those of you who have emailed being so supportive thanks, my scary time at the doctors is over with a positive result **

**Lily**

'Holmes? Someone with Mr Holmes?'

I jerked myself from my tortured sleep 'Yeah?' I drawled

'Mr Holmes' doctor would like to talk with you, Mr..?'

'Watson. Dr Watson.'

'Certainly Doctor. This way please.' The nurse smiled tightly, turned away and trotted off down the corridor. I wiped my hand across my face, trying to clear the dregs of sleep and staggered after her.

The little puddle of fear at the bottom of my stomach increased tenfold when I saw that she was leading me towards intensive care. And again when I saw the doctor's face. It was grey with worry and had purple bruises under the eyes.

'Dr Watson, I presume?' she asked, yawning 'You are written down as Mr Holmes' emergency contact.' She smiled faintly in response to my look of tired surprise. 'Well, Mr Holmes's condition has stabilised over the past few hours, but obviously he's still in a bad way. We believe his head injury gave him compression, which triggered a stroke a few hours ago. Obviously, we caught it fast and he's been left with very little or no brain damage.' I put my head in my hands and sank into a seat by the door, hands shaking, heart pounding gasping for breath.

'Oh God, oh thank god, I...' The young doctor laid a hand on my shoulder and gave it a small squeeze.

'Dr Watson...'

'Yes, I'm sorry, I'm-I'm...' I gasped

'Look, don't worry. Mr Holmes is awake and still alive at the present time.' She smiled at the medical joke 'He has a broken ankle and a minor spinal injury as well as the head injuries, his condition is... bad, but stable. I'm prescribing full bed rest for two weeks plus the bag full of drugs that Nurse Rannet is currently holding. Go in and see him.'

I nodded my head in thanks, but I was far too focused on getting to see Sherlock.

I pushed open the door to his room and stepped through. My heart broke and soared at the same time. I didn't even know that was vaguely possible.

Sherlock moved his eyes to look at me, he was unable to move anything else, due to the brace he was wearing across his neck and back. The oxygen mask was obscuring a lot of his face, but I saw him smile as I walked in.

There was silence for a few moments. 'Hello.' I said awkwardly. The doctor walked in behind me and gently lifted the oxygen mask off his face. Then the most upsetting sight of all. Because of the wounds on his brow and the back of his crown, they'd shaved his head.

'Go ahead.' She said, smiling at him 'You can talk, try it.' As she left, she leant over and whispered 'He should be fine, don't let him get up and if you need a doctor ask for Doctor Lefayte, that's me.' She looked back at Sherlock with a small smile 'I'll leave you two in private.'

I muttered my thanks distractedly, still staring at the prostrate figure of Sherlock in the bed. The door closed with a click and I continued staring at Sherlock, clearing his throat in bed, drinking him in, feeling like I hadn't seen him in months.

My footsteps rang across the plastic floor as I slowly walked to the side of Sherlock's bed. As soon as I came within reach of him, Sherlock grabbed my hand, running his thumb over my knuckles.

'Hello.' He said in a gravelly, obviously little used voice. 'You haven't slept. Stop running your fingers through your hair. It'll start falling out.'

I gave a slight, choked laugh before throwing my arms around him, not caring about the expanse of metal covering his back, forming a barrier between us. I buried my face in his shoulder as his right hand came painfully up to rest on my shoulder, I wasn't crying yet, (I'm actually quite proud of that) So I brought my face up again to look in his eyes, running one finger down his jaw.

'I thought I'd lost you.' I sobbed, finally breaking down.

'So did I.' He replied 'I thought of you when the car hit.'

It was almost certainly the sweetest thing I'd ever heard from Sherlock. I buried my head into his shoulder again and sobbed gently.

'I tell you one thing you stupid, stupid bastard.' I muttered, sniffing softly 'You are never getting into a bloody car again.'

**AN: Look! I was nice! I didn't kill him off, you all asked, so come on, review. You know you want to...**


	35. Chapter 35

**An: Ok standard apology, admittance that I'm not dead etc. Etc. A levels, National competitions and Tumblr seem to have taken over my life right now. I took thirty hours a week of assorted A level related courses.**

**Promise me you'll never do that to yourself (if you haven't already.)**

**Anyway, this chapter has no prompt but was inspired by several things:**

**I have to lay a wreath at Armistice parade on Sunday**

**I live at the back of an RAF base and an American-marked aeroplane is flying over my head as I type.**

**I was bored.**

**Have a good one and try not to shout at me about the long wait. **

**Lily**

Today marks ninety four years since the end of the Great War.

Sixty seven since the end of the Second World War.

And I, John Hamish Watson MD, late of the fifth Northumberland Rifles, have been asked to lay a wreath on behalf of the veterans of the RAMC.

As I am currently only forty three, and the last guy who did it was pushing ninety and a Second World War veteran, I am not sure whether to be extremely honoured, or quite insulted. I think the first option, since not one in ten thousand servicemen and women will ever get a chance to lay the wreath at the cenotaph.

And, contrary to my - admittedly rather low - expectations, Sherlock is immensely proud. I have not the foggiest why to be perfectly honest, but proud he is and it warmed my heart to see him smile as he read my letter. It was him who made me do it, actually. I hadn't wanted to, the cold weather has made my leg stiff and on at least three occasions this week I have needed help to get out of bed. I didn't want to run the risk of falling over when saluting the queen. But Sherlock had decided that I should go, and Sherlock always gets what he wants.

The same look of pride and admiration was on his face at eleven o'clock today as we stood, I in line with the other veterans, he three rows back in the crowd, under the bright blue sky and paid our respects. I may not get affection from him very often but when I do, oh boy. They are some of the best memories I hold in my heart.

The ceremony itself was beautiful, moving and profound. And short. However hard I may try to show my deep respect for those that gave their lives, if the vicar is boring or the service is long I am constantly on edge in case Sherlock decides to 'entertain' himself and I am forced to stop it all kicking off.

Anyway, it was beautiful and Sherlock was quiet and attentive all the way through (I did get my miracle, you see). We observed the two minute silence and at quarter past eleven, Sherlock squeezed my hand and slipped out of st Paul's to join the crowds thronging the streets outside while I marched to Whitehall with my fellow veterans.

I laid my wreath and saluted various dignitaries without major mishap, except that the BBC coverage of the ceremony went fuzzy for ten minutes, because one of their cameras bust. All fine and good because it was nothing to do with me.

Anyway, that's not important because it's not the most interesting thing that happened today.

It's a funny day remembrance day. It affects people in a way you don't see normally. I suppose it's because people start to remember and then they start to think about things, during my tours in Afghanistan, and even when I was on the base, more than one young man, often a newly passed out soldier, has been sat weeping in my office because of bad memories that have surfaced on Armistice Day.

Now, as you may have noticed, my dear Sherlock is not a normal man. Not even close. But it seems even he is affected by the solemnity and overall respect of the occasion.

Shortly after the ceremony ended, he took me by the hand and led me away from Whitehall. With so many people thronging the streets and cluttering the pavements it was going to be hard to get a cab. We ended up walking really quite a long way before we found one.

When we were safely inside, I hastily undid the strap of my cap and tore my gloves off.

'Bloody hell, I'm glad that's over!'

Sherlock smiled distantly 'You did fine John. Hardly anyone will have been able to tell that your leg was bothering you again.'

I blushed slightly. I had thought I'd gotten good enough at hiding it from him. 'Why were you so eager for me to do this Sherlock? If I may ask of course.'

'You may. It is... an honourable thing to do.'

I huffed 'Do you think I don't pay attention to you Sherlock? There's more, I know there is.'

He gave me a pained look 'Really John, I know you try desperately hard but there really is no point. I am not willing to impart the information to you; therefore it will not be imparted. Don't even try to change my mind.'

I gritted my teeth, suddenly annoyed. Today brought peace to the world nearly a hundred years ago. It seems even that can't bring peace to my relationship 'Fine Sherlock, fine. If you don't want to talk about it, we won't talk about it, but as you know my every emotion before I do, I simply thought you might like to give me a level footing this once.'

He nodded curtly, a faint snort of annoyance leaving his throat. The rest of the ride home was spent in silence. As was the trip up the stairs into the flat. But, as I turned to the bedroom so I could go and get changed, he caught my wrist and held me in place.

Now, the trick when Sherlock is going to tell you something is not to push him. He will tell you of his own accord or not at all. So when he chooses to get my attention, I will sit or stand where I am and stay silent so he can tell me what he wants in his own time.

This time however he pushed me gently into my chair and turned to face the window. He took a deep breath and said 'You're right you know. There is something more.' I nearly fell over in pure shock, the next sentence however broke my heart. 'My father was killed in action. When I was seven. The Falklands conflict.'

I was genuinely puzzled 'But Sherlock, I've met your dad, he was...'

A soft laugh came from the window 'You met our stepfather. My mother married again after my father died. She needed someone around to justify why she never spent any time with Mycroft or I.' He made a bitter face 'He was barely cold in his grave. He was in the navy, in command of the HMS Sheffield, he went away and made Mycroft promise to look after me until he got back. Of course, he never came back. I think that's why Mycroft is still taking care of me. Waiting for Daddy to come home. Our father was the only one who ever cared about us, and I barely knew him when he died. We were left with nobody.'

I think the cool, carefully neutral tone broke my heart even more than the bitter words. 'Oh Sherlock...'

I wrapped my arms around him from behind and kissed as high up his back as I could reach before turning him round and resting my head on his shoulder 'We'll be sad together today, okay? Piece of cake.'

We stayed there gently rocking and remember people who we'd lost until the sun went down.

At the going down of the sun and in the morning.

We will remember them.

**Lily**


	36. Chapter 36

**AN: 'What?!' I hear you say 'Two updates in as many weeks, is she dying and wants to ingrain her weird sense of humour firmly on our minds?'**

**No.**

**This was prompted by Kelllie and thank you very much for your highly complementary review my dear!**

**Lily**

'Oh John!' sighed the long-suffering Mrs Hudson as she stood in the doorway of our flat. 'With Sherlock I could understand this mess but you should know better!'

I flushed in shame slightly and hastily sidled carefully in front of the kitchen table (bearing a bowl of rotten fruit and several odd-coloured old experiments) 'Sorry Mrs Hudson, we will clear up...'

'At some point but not now.' Said Sherlock, coming up behind me and sliding his arm around my waist. I saw Mrs Hudson's face soften considerably at the gesture.

'Well it had better be soon boys. I'm only trying to look after you boys, sooner or later one of you is going to come down with something nasty and then who'll be left to look after you?' She turned, obviously intending to make a grand exit, but squeaked and jumped back as she was confronted with... something. 'What on earth is that?' She squeaked. I shut my eyes and silently begged Sherlock not to answer that truthfully.

He looked over her shoulder in interest. 'I believe it is a yoghurt circa... 23 of October.' He turned to me 'I told you those things were bad for you John.'

Mrs Hudson gave a disgusted little cry, and scampered quickly out of the door.

And now for an explanation.

The reason for our flat's abysmal state was down to the latest case. It was an unusual because it was one that Mycroft had given us, and even more unusual because Sherlock had deemed it interesting enough to be granted his attention.

I fear I am unable to tell you what the case involved, as it contains matters delicate to her majesty's government and even to her majesty herself, and anyway, I don't know what surveillance Mycroft has put in this flat that we haven't ripped out within five minutes of finding, and I am not willing to be 'taken care of' for telling you about Mycroft's little problems.

Anyway, back to the mess in the flat. The case took a surprisingly long time, a week and a half to be exact, and culminated in a certain young man, naming no names, dislocating my knee and shoving me in a cellar in Portsmouth to drown when the tide came in.

Five hours later, I was found by a local policeman and given to Sherlock who had been banned from coming in because of the hyperventilating. I believe I have indicated in an earlier narrative that Sherlock is able to have hysterics completely internally. That statement needs to be changed to 'is sometimes able'.

Now, as you may have guessed Sherlock was fairly pleased to have me back, though I do say so myself, and had become rather vocal and somewhat physical in letting me know that when we arrived back in London. As you may imagine, cleaning was not in the forefront of either of our mind. The flat had begun to look like it had been the victim of a small nuclear attack.

Shortly after the debacle with Mrs Hudson, it became abundantly clear that we should have listened to her. Because Sherlock at the cold Chinese.

I'd told him to throw it away at least three days ago, and yet he hadn't. He'd also decided that it was a good idea to heat it up and tell me that he'd ordered fresh Chinese. I'll admit I probably could have worked out that it wasn't fresh stuff, but I couldn't be bothered. For that I am ashamed.

It was for that reason that Sherlock stumbled out of bed at four in the morning, and ran to our small bathroom, just in time to empty his stomach into the toilet. I sat by him and mopped his brow, making sympathetic noises until six. It was then that I threw up into the sink.

Suddenly I wasn't feeling quite so sympathetic.

It was possibly the groaning, possibly the thumping, very possibly my own quiet whimpering as I laid my head on the toilet seat and started to cry softly, that roused Mrs Hudson and forced her to come upstairs in her nightie with her hair still in curlers.

She gasped as she came to the door of the bathroom 'Oh look at you both!' she said

'I'd rather not.' Sherlock moaned, resting his pale and sweaty face on the side of the bath.

She pulled Sherlock up by the shoulder of his t-shirt and me by the scruff on my neck. 'I warned you didn't I!' She tutted, dragging us back to the sitting room 'I told you you'd catch something if you stayed in this mess, but you didn't listen you never listen!'

She threw us onto the sofa together 'Thank you Mrs Hudson, we'll...' I began weakly

'Oh no you don't John Watson! You've gotten yourself into this mess and it's up to me to get you out!'

As she stormed into the kitchen in search of bleach and buckets, I groaned and buried my head in Sherlock's shoulder. We were in for a fun week...

**AN: I have no idea.**


	37. Chapter 37

**AN: My sister's pretending to be sick so I'm writing this in an effort to ignore her.**

**I believe this prompt comes to you from the lovely Kelllie again, because I have run out, please replenish my stock of prompts.**

**Lily x**

'Sherlock? I've got another one!'

The man in question growled from his position on the sofa, crossed the room in two bounds, snatched the offending letter from my hand and flopped back onto the sofa, ripping it open and staring at the text as if it had personally offended him.

I sighed 'You really don't have to act like this Sherlock.'

The glare I received nearly sent me sprawling across the carpet.

'John, these letters are the only evidence we have in this case! It is absolutely imperative that every letter you receive comes to me.' That gorgeous pout made an appearance 'Anyway, besides...'

I smirked, now we were getting to the crux of the matter. 'Besides what, Sherlock?'

'... Please don't be childish John. You honestly can have no illusions about our... situation.'

Now feigning innocence for all I was worth, I slipped into the seat beside him and waited for the inevitable arm curling round my waist. 'I honestly don't know what you mean, my dear.'

He muttered something indistinct into the letter. I put one finger delicately behind my ear 'Sorry Sherlock, didn't quite catch that..?'

In reply Sherlock simply clapped both hands on the sides of my face and pulled me into the fiercest kiss I have ever experienced.

We broke away and he rested his forehead against mine, both breathing heavily. 'You are mine.' He growled, sweet tea smelling breath washing over my face. 'You are mine and no one else can say those things to you, understand?'

I huffed out a laugh.

...

The story behind this outburst may interest the casual reader.

Essentially, in early November Lestrade had given Sherlock and I a case involving a young woman named Babs, who it seemed had been killing nurses after her own rejection from nursing college. But, they couldn't prove it since Babs had apparently been with her mother all night at the time the young nurse they'd found had died. Suspiciously, said mother had died in the interim. Lestrade had checked the parish records and the mother had died exactly when Babs said she had.

By the time all the paperwork and red tape had been bypassed, Sherlock had decided that we needed to go and talk to Babs. We duly did, and it turned out she wasn't the killer, as Babs was found hanging from her light fitting, wearing a brand new nurse's uniformed.

And now we were back to square one. But Bab's neighbour had incurred a good deal of suspicion since we'd gone around to ask her if she'd heard anything, had laughed slightly at the news that Babs was dead and had spent the entire subsequent interview flirting with me, culminating in her sitting on my lap in an attempt to show me her 'pretty stocking tops.'

Anyway, three days later I had received an anonymous letter telling me... well. Based on Sherlock's outburst, I think you can probably guess what it told me. A month later and I had received upwards of thirty of these letters. Sherlock was at the end of his tether and three more nurses were dead.

BUT... Sherlock had found a fingerprint. On a corpse's tabard and the corner of a letter. And they matched a woman with a history of criminal activity on the police database. Who looked suspiciously like Babs' neighbour.

...

Which was why we were now crouched outside her door, in the freezing cold on a draughty staircase, waiting for her to come out of her flat.

'Why are we still out here?' I hissed

'Her routine dictates that she'll go out to work between six thirty and six thirty five. It's only six twenty eight.'

'Sherlock, I...'

'Sssshhh!' the woman had come out of her door and was standing on the step, smoothing her coat down. Sherlock sidled out of the shadows to stand right opposite her.

'It's tough isn't it? When dreams don't come true.'

The woman started back and fell flat against her door 'S-sorry?'

'Miss Jordan isn't it? The nurses? It's not their fault they made it and you didn't.'

'I should have made it!' she hissed tearfully 'I was more qualified than any of them! Empty headed little sluts!'

'There's really no need for mindless insults.'

For more than half of this riveting conversation I had been subtly pulling the handgun from the waistband of my jeans, as the woman stepped forward and starting trying to strangle my boyfriend, I decided it was high time that I did something, so I loosed off a round into her wall.

She snapped round to look into the stairwell and ran slap-bang into three uniformed policemen as they ran up the stairs, followed closely by Donovan and Lestrade.

Needless to say, she gave up pretty sharpish after that.

...

As we were walking back towards a main road, Sherlock turned to me and asked 'So what did you think of your secret admirer then?'

I snorted, causing a passing business man to throw me an affronted look. He nearly threw up when I held Sherlock's hand 'Mine's prettier than yours.'

'That is not a comparison John. My admirer was hardly secret about it.'

When the fit of giggles had died away, i squeezed Sherlock's hand 'She had nothing on you Love.'

The look on Sherlock's face was worth all the slushy sentiment in the world. 'Well... thank you.' He mumbled, trying to hide his strawberry blush.

'Piece of cake, dear.'

**AN: Awwwwwwww! However hard I try these days I cannot avoid fluff, it's like a disease. Please review, and PROMPT!**


	38. Chapter 38

**AN: One review? Disappointed! **

**This prompt is from Fantasybean and I LOVED it. So all credit for this chapter goes to her since her prompt was very detailed.**

**Lily**

I stared at the crested envelope in my hands.

'Sherlock? You've got a letter from Caius College in Cambridge.'

I dropped it over the back of the sofa and twenty seconds later it remerged, now open, accompanied by the phrase 'Boring.'

I scooped it up and sauntered into the kitchen reading it. 'Sherlock this is an invitation to an alumni meeting at your old college... you went to Cambridge? How much money does your family _have_?!'

'Thank you John. I can read, you realise.' Replied my grumpy sweetheart.

'Well why don't you go? It might be fun, you never know you might make some new friends!'

Sherlock looked up over the back of the sofa and looked around the room before resting his eyes on me 'Oh did you mean me? Sorry, I thought a small child had wandered in.' And he flumped back into the sofa cushions.

I sighed 'Please Sherlock, I'd like to see where you went to Uni. I've never really been exposed to the upper class way of life.' I turned back to the kitchen 'I'm only exposed to two upper class pricks at any one time.'

Sherlock's slightly amused glare followed me into the kitchen.

...

'Wait.' I caught Sherlock up just outside the double doors and straightened up his bowtie.

'Honestly, are you my boyfriend or my mother?' he pouted.

I smiled smugly and continued smoothing down his shirt 'Considering what we were doing this morning, I really hope I'm not your mother...'

He smiled back at me and looped his arm through mine, leading me through the double doors.

I was greeted by an array of sparkling ball gowns, expensive suits and different people's perfume. I stared around me, realising that the necklace the young lady next to me was wearing, quite probably cost more than my annual wages. I suddenly felt like my best suit (£300 from Savile Row Tailors in the sale) was far, far too cheap.

I suddenly felt a slight pressure on my hand and looked up into concerned silvery eyes 'Are you alright John?'

I made a little strangled noise.

Sherlock smiled worriedly and bent his head to whisper in my ear 'You see the man in the tartan waistcoat? He was down the corridor in my dorm block, and was sleeping with the girl across the hall, the boy across the hall and our sociology lecturer. Now he's sleeping with his wife's manager...'

I giggled, my inferiority complex gone. A few minutes later we were called through to dinner and seated on a table with five men and two women. The women mainly spoke to each other all night and the men immediately launched into a discussion with Sherlock about the price of tennis shoes or something. I started to drift off and stopped paying attention, until one of the buck-toothed, chinless weirdos spoke to me.

'So what year of Alumni are you from?' He asked in that voice that sounds like he's trying to swallow a tennis ball.

'Oh I didn't come to Cambridge.' I replied cheerfully 'I never had that sort of money.'

'Oh.' He looked put out 'Well you must be with someone.'

'Yes. With Sherlock Holmes.'

'Oh yes, I see. I suppose you two work together do you?' I opened my mouth to reply but he simply carried on oblivious 'You might want to steer a path clear of Sherlock, old chap.' He looked over his shoulder to see that no one was spying on us 'Bit of an odd fish that one.' He whispered 'Always thought he might have been... you know.' He wiggled his eyebrows at me. I schooled my face into a mask of uncertainly 'A bit of a poufter.' The unpleasant man hissed 'Doesn't bother me of course. Leaves more of the totty for the rest of us real men, what?' he slapped me on the back and guffawed hugely.

'What do you mean real men?' I asked in feigned surprise

'Well, you know. Those of us who don't go in for the old buggery.' He smirked and tapped the front of my jacket. 'The real men.' He gestured with his glass 'The normals of the population. Look, don't mention any of this to Sherlock, alright? I'm sure you know how he can be...' he gave an embarrassed roll of the eyes

I smile humourlessly 'Oh absolutely, piece of cake. But I'm sure you'll agree sir, that normality is what you make of it.' Now, after that night, I'm pretty sure someone up there is rooting for me. Because around twelve seconds after I had said that, Sherlock came up behind me holding a drink.

'Hello Edgar.' He said in his bored voice.

'What ho, Sherlock.' Slurred the prick I had just been talking to.

'John, are you – Mmf!' Sherlock said as I tugged him down for a rough kiss. About ten minutes later we broke apart and I gave him another chaste kiss on his lips. I turned to Edgar- the- prick, looping my arm around Sherlock's waist.

'What were you saying about normal men in the population?' The look of shock and fear on Edgar- the – prick's face was worth being kicked out of the college for.

**AN: Edgar the prick's views on homosexuality are not my views on homosexuality. He is a prick. Please review. And prompt.**


	39. Chapter 39

**AN: I'm so very sorry my dears. Mocks and various other things happened.**

**This is for GRock 87. This was an absurdly hard prompt for what it was. That sentence made sense...**

**Lily**

I have always loved Christmas. Ever since I was a child, even at Camp Bastion we always celebrated Christmas, whatever ward or platoon I was working with. I made sure of that. So, sod's law, I would get myself involved with a man who, it turns out, is the human embodiment of the Grinch.

I'm not kidding. Right down to the weird long fingers and sarcasm.

Fortunately, I had managed to work out (with my apparently tiny brain) that I shouldn't try any of my usual tricks to make myself feel Christmassy but unfortunately, Mrs Hudson hadn't.

So, having returned from the messy and rather frightening crime scene that Lestrade had given to us (man garrotted with a string of fairy lights. Lestrade turned up in a santa hat) Mrs Hudson had 'decorated' the flat.

Now, I'm not a particularly religious man. I wrote Jedi on my census form, but if god turns out to be real and I (by some fluke of nature) get to heaven, I still reckon I will never again see as many angels in one place. I kid you not, they were everywhere. The only reason they weren't stuck to the floor was because she had to clean. Our flat looked like a small girl's ballet class (but not in a creepy Jimmy Savile kind of way). But anyway, enough of the decor.

Anyway, having stepped through the door in a very good mood, Sherlock immediately transferred to a state of vengeful boredom. He rolled his eyes and flopped down on the sofa. I sighed, knowing I was in for several hours of whining and sympathy 'Sherlock please, she was only trying to help...'

'Yes and turning a flat, that she constantly claims she isn't the housekeeper of, into some sort of religious shrine is helping, is it? I'm fairly sure that, in fact, it's breaking and entering.'

I sighed again from the kitchen and rested my head against the cabinet in front of me 'She had a key Sherlock. It doesn't count as a felony.'

'I'm sure we can get something on her, little old ladies are always up to something...'

'You cannot simply accuse our landlady, who looks after us considerably better than either of us ever could, of committing any crime that comes into your head, Sherlock!'

He popped his head up over the back of the sofa 'And why not?'

I am ashamed to say, I actually had to think about it. I stood in the doorway of the kitchen, pointing my finger at him and opening and closing my mouth like a goldfish for a few minutes while I thought of a reason that didn't include the phrase 'Because I'll starve to death.' 'Because... because she'll start charging us full price on the rent.'

Oddly, that seemed to scare him. 'Really, John, Christmas is simply a commercialised version of an ancient religious festival...'

'Yes, I know Sherlock, I went to Catholic school...'

He stared at me like I was barmy 'I wasn't talking about Christianity John, I was talking about Saturnalia.'

I pinched the bridge of my nose and leant back against the sofa 'Ok, I know I really shouldn't get involved with this but what is saturnalia?' I swear I heard all the angels groan.

'Saturnalia was an ancient Roman festival in honour of the deity Saturn originally held on December 17 and later expanded with festivities through December 23. The holiday was celebrated with a sacrifice at the Temple of Saturn in the Roman Forum and a public banquet, followed by private gift-giving, continual partying, and a carnival atmosphere that overturned Roman social norms: gambling was permitted, and masters provided table service for their slaves. The poet Catullus called it "the best of days."

In Roman mythology, Saturn was an agricultural deity who reigned over the world in the Golden Age, when humans enjoyed the spontaneous bounty of the earth without labor in a state of social egalitarianism. The revelries of Saturnalia were supposed to reflect the conditions of the lost mythical age, not all of them desirable. The Greek equivalent was the Kronia.

Although probably the best-known Roman holiday, Saturnalia as a whole is not described from beginning to end in any single ancient source. Modern understanding of the festival is pieced together from several accounts dealing with various aspects. The Saturnalia was the dramatic setting of the multivolume work of that name by Macrobius, a Latin writer from late antiquity who is the major source for the holiday. In one of the interpretations in Macrobius's work, Saturnalia is a festival of light leading to the winter solstice, with the abundant presence of candles symbolizing the quest for knowledge and truth. The renewal of light and the coming of the new year was celebrated in the later Roman Empire at the Dies Natalis of Sol Invictus, the "Birthday of the Unconquerable Sun," on December 25.

The popularity of Saturnalia continued into the 3rd and 4th centuries AD, and as the Roman Empire came under Christian rule, some of its customs may have influenced the seasonal celebrations surrounding Christmas and the New Year. '

He looked even more pleased with himself than he normally did.

'Well thank you for that... riveting history lesson.'

'Piece of cake.' Floated over from the back of the sofa.

I wandered away singing 'Tis the season to be jolly. And oh, how it is.

**AN: The description of saturnalia was copy and pasted directly from Wikipedia. So, my exams start of 9****th**** January and end on the 23****rd****. Fun. So for that period and some considerable time before, I will be disappearing off the face of the earth. Sdo, if I don't update between now and christmas, merry Christmas! Tell you what would make a good present for your devoted writer, maybe a review or two?**

**Lily**


	40. Chapter 40

**AN: Hi. **

**So I was in chemistry today, we were doing an experiment which my friend and I mucked up royally, so I started to wonder what it would be like if Sherlock taught a sixth form class. Because I have a strong suspicion it would be hilarious, so, obviously, I decided to write about it. **

**Thank you to my most wonderful reviewers. I love you all, even those who don't review, and merry Christmas to you all!**

**Lily**

'No.' He sighed, plucking his bow from the edge of his music stand.

'But... you promised...' Molly said desperately

'I think you'll find that I didn't promise, Molly. I simply allowed you to believe that I would acquiesce to your request, and I will tell you now, I am not teaching any snotty group of children. Particularly not in chemistry. I highly doubt that any of them will appreciate the great subtlety and...'

'Give it a rest Sherlock.' I groaned 'We all appreciate the great gift you are to the world of science, now why won't you help Molly with her class?'

Molly timidly poked her head over my shoulder 'And they're not snotty children. Most of them are around seventeen, I did say that this was a sixth form class.'

Sherlock snorted and drew the bow across the strings harshly 'That's hardly better than primary school, Molly.'

Molly sighed and turned to the door 'Well okay then Sherlock. I guess I tried.' As she reached the door, she turned as if she'd just remembered something 'Oh, did I tell you? The application I put in for you to borrow all this equipment has been revoked, so I'm going to have to come and collect it, sometime tomorrow?' she shrugged and gave a little faux-embarrassed shrug 'Sorry. And with no equipment I don't suppose you'll be able to do any experiments. Pity.'

Sherlock stared at her throughout the little monologue, his jaw growing tighter and tighter. 'This is blackmail.' He hissed, his face going even paler.

Molly examined her nails and looked into his face again 'Yes it is Sherlock. What do you suppose that means?'

Sherlock growled quietly through his teeth and threw himself flat on the sofa 'Fine. Email me a lesson plan and I will see how I can dumb the great science down so that it seems to justify the consciousness of some vacuous teenager.'

I raised my eyebrows and smiled slightly at her 'And I would take that as a yes. Come on, I'll see you to the door.' As we walked down the stairs, I nudged her and grinned 'Well look at you Molly Hooper. Standing up to Sherlock like that. What's the change?'

She smiled and turned away 'Goodbye John.'

...

So the next Tuesday, I found myself sat at the back of a first year lab in Aston College, watching Sherlock snap bad temperedly at a science technician as she tried to make him wear a lab coat. When he eventually did shoulder into the scrap of thick white cotton, she smirked and wandered back into the prep room.

The class filed in shortly afterwards, several students recoiling at Sherlock, as he stood, arms folded and leaning against the teacher's desk.

He slammed the textbook down on the table bad naturedly and swept the room with a scowl. Suddenly, one of the kids made a big mistake.

She laughed and said 'Who's the new tech? Bit up himself isn't he?'

To my very great surprise, Sherlock didn't even look up 'Does your mother know it was you who drowned your brother's kitten?' he asked coolly

Wisely, the girl didn't comment. 'Right.' He sighed 'My name is Mr Holmes...'

Molly leaned across the desk 'They call the teachers by their first names here.' Sherlock silenced her with a scowl.

'As I was saying, my name is Mr Holmes.' He glanced pointedly at Molly 'And as Miss Hooper has probably told you, I am here to help you with your assessed practical. As the lot of you are only first years I can hardly expect the experiment to be very interesting or for it to be performed accurately but we may hold out some hope that at least ten percent of you are of above average intelligence.'

As one, the class gave him an affronted look.

'Right.' He flashed the students a brief smile 'Let's get started shall we?'

...

An hour later and seventeen teenage chemistry students had fallen deeply in love with Sherlock.

To be honest, I really couldn't blame them. Sherlock had changed their experiment, meaning that none of them would get their EMPA but according to a young lady who introduced herself as Bella, it mattered little, walked round as they conducted his experiment and pronounced their efforts 'Clumsy', 'Inept' and 'Pretentious', but actually told them how to fix it, and tried to make Molly fetch him a piece of cadaver so that he could demonstrate the effect of sulphuric acid on dead skin.

Actually the last one was unjustifiably popular. I don't know what it is about teenagers and an unnatural attachment to gore.

'Mr Holmes, why's it doing this?'

He gave the boy a pitying look 'Mr Kays, I am not going to dignify that with a response. You have written out the equation for the enthalpy change, what are the products shown...?'

It occurred to me, watching Sherlock walk around the lab and correct the kid's experiments, that however much he may profess that he hates children, he is good with them. Every kid in the room was asking questions and Sherlock was replying to them, largely, without sarcasm. It just made me smile was all. And maybe a little sad.

Oh well.

**AN: ...this started out as a chapter and ended up revision notes. Ah chemistry, how I love thee... if you love chemistry, this story, life or Sherlock (or a combination of the four) please review!**


	41. Chapter 41

**An: WOW! I am so sorry this has taken so long. Once again, I'm posting not only because I love all you guys but to quell rumours that I'm dead and all my loving (hah!) family members are grieving for me.**

**However I must admit that I was lured away by the… lure of another fandom. I'm truly sorry, but if I'm very lucky the Sherlock fandom will welcome me once more with open arms and plenty of Johnlocky goodness. Also there were these weird thing called exams that were chasing me and going to eat me and… *clears throat* anyway, on with the show! This is a chapter for sevenpercent who prompted me ages ago and I forgot about it, so sorry for that. I'm afraid you're probably going to want to shout at me again because I've ended up being very bitter about privilege once again so you must forgive me for that. And we have a new POV in this episode, so that's exciting isn't it?**

**River (it's still me I just changed my penname)**

Looking around at their bomb site of a flat, John wonders just how easy Sherlock has had it all his short life. The man seems completely unaware of the mess that he creates and is often extremely surprised when, after a long night of experimenting on, among other things, his own suit, said suit is not lying at the bottom of his bed, freshly laundered and looking like the day it came out of the packet. Or, John corrects himself mentally, knowing Sherlock, the day he was exclusively measured for it.

Childhood is one of the only things they've never talked about in their… whatever this is. John knows he's the only one who has had free access to the particulars of Sherlock's life, the only one who has ever shared his thoughts, let alone his bed, but somehow conversations about their respective pasts have always stuck rigidly to the rule of 'We do not go past twenty one.' However, based on his experience with Sherlock, and the way that both the Holmes brothers act and speak, John can make an educated guess at what life was life for Sherlock, pre going off the rails.

It has been obvious to John since he met the man that Sherlock comes from money. Serious money. Like Laird of the Manor type money. The cultured voice, expensive clothes and tendency toward eccentricity had all been leading clues. Add to them the seemingly indepletable bank account (when concerned with a case anyway) and very battered Harrow blazer that lay discarded like a tea-towel at the back of Sherlock's cupboard (accidentally found when John moved into Sherlock's room) and John had to wonder exactly how high up Sherlock was in social hierarchy.

Sherlock's life must have been effortless, thought John bitterly. Of course, he knew nothing of Sherlock's primary school, but his secondary schooling had taken place in one of the jewels (showy and expensive) of British education and he had gained entrance to one of the most exclusive universities in the world. Yes, thought John, much as he loved Sherlock, his darling had definitely had it easy.

And considering Sherlock's abysmal attention span and work ethic as a man just shy of thirty seven, what must it have been like when he was seventeen? John imagined that Sherlock had barely lifted a finger to pass his A-levels, reliant on the fact that, in the unlikely event of his genius not seeing him clear (which it obviously would have done), his mother's bank account probably would. Money would have opened all the right doors for Sherlock, especially when backed up by the breeding and title that John suspected both Mycroft and Sherlock must hold. He'd been sure that doorman had the Dorchester had called Sherlock 'My lord' last week.

That's not to say that Sherlock relied on his parent's money to get him through life, it was undoubtedly his mind which had gotten him into Cambridge and, considering the stories Mycroft had told John, Sherlock had actively rejected help, both financial and physical, from his family during what both brothers called 'The indiscreet years'. But somehow John doubted that Sherlock had ever had to work really hard to achieve something. He highly doubted that Sherlock had ever pulled an all-nighter trying to get his coursework done. Or that he'd struggled for days over a single page of the textbook, only to turn the page over and find that the next page was even more complicated. And he'd be prepared to put quite a lot of money on the fact that Sherlock had never work in a bloody Durham chip-shop at three in the morning, waiting for all the drunken students to piss off so he could just go home.

Not that John's ashamed of his, admittedly rather humble, origins. He still loves Northumberland, and to some extent, Durham will always be home. His parents were good people and he and Harry never went hungry or were neglected, but all the same his childhood cannot be compared with Sherlock's.

For one thing, while Sherlock's entry to Cambridge had been effortless, John's entry to Birmingham (and later, Bart's) had been a battle. A long fought for, heart aching, bone wearing slog. He remembered what life was like during his A-levels, holed up in his room doing homework, then running out the door for real work, and when he got home, perhaps an essay or two, in the slim hope that it may earn him another UCAS point or two. Ah, UCAS points. He'd treasured every single one. The golden number that decided for him whether it would be Medical School or Nursing College that he applied for. Just a point or two either way, and his fate would be sealed.

He remembers the tears on results days, having to retake because he was seven per cent short of the A he needed. He doubted Sherlock ever had to go through that.

But for all his bitterness and gurgling resentment, John knows that Sherlock really hasn't had it easy. He can see in the man's eyes and the eyes of his brother. They hold fast to their composure, but John saw Mycroft the night Greg walked out on him, because his cheating wife had told him she wanted another chance and he saw it again, ten days later when Greg came to the hospital and tearfully held Mycroft's hand swearing he'd never leave him ever again. John has seen the same look on Sherlock's face, during an argument or when John seems inexplicably cross with him. It's a look that means 'help me, I'm out of my depth' and his heart melts every time, because he knows why the Holmes boys need the reassurance of the men they love.

He knows the story of the cold, absent mother and heavy handed stepfather. Mycroft told him, Sherlock hasn't but he will when he's ready and John will listen because he loves him more than even Sherlock knows.

Because, although life may have been effortless for both Holmes boys, love… now that's a different story.

John and Sherlock are sat outside Mycroft's room while Greg makes his apologies to Mycroft. It's only in the last hour that Sherlock has allowed himself to be hit by the reality of nearly losing his big brother. John wipes the tears from his face. Love certainly hasn't been effortless for either Holmes.

Sometimes he forgets that.

**AN: That turned out a lot more serious than I was expecting and now I really want to find out what happened between Mycroft and Greg! Anyway, now for some apologies. I know that in nineteen seventy-whatever UCAS point didn't exist but as someone who is currently crying over their UCAS form I am in no mood to be sympathetic to the systems of the past. Please review and prompt!**


	42. Chapter 42

**AN: Hey! Me again. Thanks to the lovely reviewers and the people who followed/ favourite and the several people who put me on author alert. You may live to regret it.**

**This chapter is kinda a selfish one, because even though I have a backlog of prompts I wanted to know what happened between Mycroft and Greg, so it was one of those sit down at the computer and just write jobs. I hope you enjoy it!**

**Heads up, next week an earlier reference (the countess of Wessex and the chocolate chastity belt) will be explained!**

**River**

It started in the pub. Most things do these days.

Greg and I had met up for our bi-monthly getting drunk and bitching about our jobs meeting. Basically, it was incredibly awkward until we were at the happy-drunk stage because all we talked about was either Sherlock or Mycroft. Which is how I found out.

The rule was usually 'we don't talk until we're drunk' and we both stuck rigidly to it. Unfortunately, on this particular occasion, Greg had turned up late and I was considerably further along the scale of drunk than he was. Therefore, compromise. Talk about Sherlock and/or Mycroft.

'So, how's Mycroft?' I asked, deciding to go for safe ground, because Greg usually got so loud and sweary when I mentioned Sherlock that I would have to either drag him home or buy him another drink to calm him down.

Oddly, instead of launching into a rant about Mycroft wandering off to solve some first-world crisis in the middle of a date, Greg ran his finger nervously along the rim of his glass and averted his eyes. 'I don't know.' He replied eventually.

That threw me a bit, because of the drunk thing and because I was a little unsure how you could be living with somebody and yet be unsure of the state of their wellbeing.

'What do you mean you don't know?' I asked

'I mean I don't know John, shut up and have another pint, there's a good chap.'

'Greg, how can you not know? You're living with the man, does he not at least leave you notes on the bathroom mirror in the morning?' I smirked, teasing gently.

He licked his lips nervously 'If you must know, I'm not living with Mycroft anymore. I haven't been for nearly a month.'

I blinked in surprise, previously I had thought Greg and Mycroft had been one of the happiest couples I knew 'What, why? I thought you were really happy together.'

'We were.' He admitted, running a hand through his hair and taking another gulp of his pint 'There were… complications. Look, I'll tell you alright but not a word to Sherlock, agreed?'

I had started to get suspicious but I agreed anyway, because I resolved that, should Greg have done something completely unforgivable, I could whup his arse on my own anyway.

He sighed and turned away from me, raising his hand to signal for another pint. 'I walked out on him, alright?'

I stared at him, suddenly unpleasantly sober. 'You did what?!' was the first thing that passed my lips 'Why in hell would you do that Greg? Why would you walk out on someone who loves you?'

He slumped in his seat 'Karen called. The PE teacher knocked her about. She wants to give it another go, apparently it's the best thing for the kids.'

I snorted in righteous anger 'So you went back to her? You left a healthy, loving relationship to go back to the woman who broke your heart and bled you dry? What has she done to earn your trust Greg? If the guy she cheated on you with is knocking her about, get the kids out and leave her to lie in the bed she made. You don't just go back to her on the strength of a phone call Greg!' I was shouting now, and people were beginning to stare.

Greg let his eyes drift sideways to the staring young couple at the end of the bar 'Alright mate, ease up…'

'No.' I said stubbornly 'Did you at least do the honourable thing? Did you tell him face to face and give him a chance to convince you otherwise?' The way Greg's eyes slid down and his hand began to flex nervously on the table told me all I needed to know 'Oh for fu… the old note on the coffee table routine? You didn't even tell him to his _face?_' I stood up, grabbing my coat from the back of my chair and dragging it on. 'Well, I hope you're happy Greg. And I tell you now, I'm not keeping my promise.'

…

As I furiously walked home, it occurred to me that I didn't even like Mycroft that much, so why was I so angry on his behalf? _Because Greg knows that the relationship with his wife will fall down around his ears,_ supplied my internal voice, _and when it does, Greg will go back to Mycroft and beg him for a second chance. He's going to do what Karen did to him to Mycroft. And you don't know if Mycroft will have the strength to say no…_

…

I ran up the stairs to the flat and was greeted with Sherlock looking surprised at the apparently unsolicited display of energy. Unusually, he was fully dressed, so I threw him his coat and shoes and waited for him at the top of the stairs.

'We're going to see your brother.' I announced by way of greeting and yanked him through the door, pulling it shut behind me.

On the cab ride to Mycroft's I filled Sherlock in on what had happened at the pub. Surprisingly, Sherlock's reaction was indifference.

'Why should I care about my brother's relationship troubles?' He asked, leaning stubbornly against the cab window.

'Mycroft has been on his own for a month and even you knew nothing about it Sherlock, doesn't that bother you?' I asked, feeling anxious for a reason I did not yet know.

Sherlock sighed tetchily and gave me the 'How do I put up with you, Mortal?' look 'Mycroft is a master at hiding his feelings. He does it all the time for his job, I see no reason why either you or I should be expected to interfere in his personal life without first being invited.'

I gritted my teeth and kneaded my forehead with my fingers. The truth was, I had known something was up. Mycroft had had the look that Sherlock gets if we've had a fight. I just hadn't registered it in another pair of eyes. And I was worried about him. 'I just want to make sure he's OK Sherlock.'

Sherlock shrugged 'Fine, go and ring the doorbell. You'll see that I'm right.'

…

I did ring the doorbell. And was filled with a creeping feeling of dread when a few seconds passed and no one answered the door. I looked back at the cab and beckoned to Sherlock. Begrudgingly, he got out and came to join me on the steps.

'He's not answering the door.' I informed him as he drew close. He frowned slightly and pulled out his mobile. His frown deepened when it simply rang through to voicemail.

'Is there another way of getting into the building?' I asked, suddenly afraid that something terrible had happened.

'Yes, there's a door round the back. There'll be a night-watchman, but he should let us through.' Sherlock was displaying more annoyance than fear, but I knew he wanted to find out what was going on as badly as I did.

We ran around to the side door, presented our (in Sherlock's case, pinched) police IDs and were duly shown in. The door to Mycroft's flat was locked. I hammered on it and when that brought no response, put my shoulder to it.

Sherlock rolled his eyes, pulled me back, reached into his pocket and brought out a key. As he slid it into the lock, I could hear him muttering 'Honestly John, Mycroft will be fine just wait and s-'

The muttering stopped abruptly as Sherlock swung the door open. We stepped into an ice cold room, I felt the radiators. The heating must have gone off hours ago, and if no one had reset it…

'Mycroft?' I asked, cautiously

Sherlock was wandering around the room muttering deductions 'The radiators have been off for several hours, but the kettle in the kitchen is still lukewarm the water must have been boiled two to three hours ago, he hasn't gone out, keys are still in the bowl, which means…' he suddenly sprinted into the back of the flat, towards the bedroom. I followed, shivering even through my jacket.

The light was on in the bedroom and I saw Sherlock holding a bottle of something up to the light. 'What are those, Sherlock?'

'Anti-convulsants.' He said, sounding more interested than worried 'He was taking diazepam for back pain. They sometimes have a side effect of causing seizures, so he was given these to suppress it. They have to be taken on a full stomach and there was no food in the cupboards, so I would imagine he has been slowly dissolving the lining of his stomach. Given the prescription date and dosage, there are more gone than there should be.' He swung round to face me. 'You'll find him in the bathroom.'

…

I did find him in the bathroom. I won't tell you in what state because Mycroft doesn't want to tell me and you don't want to know, but he was there. I did what I could and called an ambulance while Sherlock made some attempt at cleaning up the blood.

When the ambulance arrived, Sherlock went with them because I had a phone call I needed to make.

I called Greg and told him the bare facts of what was going on, where Mycroft was and exactly what he had driven the man he loved to. I then told him that I sure as hell wouldn't want to see him, but if he was very, very lucky Mycroft might agree to. I then told him exactly what I'd do to him if he turned up at the hospital and broke Mycroft's heart all over again. I rang off without ever giving him a chance to say anything back.

An hour later, I was stood outside the intensive care ward in which Mycroft was housed and leaning against the wall. This was how Greg found me when he came pounding along the corridor. He looked at me and cast his eyes down.

'How did you know I'd turn up?' he mumbled, shamefacedly.

'I didn't.' I admitted.

'I'm sorry I'm so late, I had to make everything right with the wife, you know. Tell her…'

'I don't think you understand what you've done here tonight Greg.' I broke in quietly. 'You have broken one of the strongest men I have known in a long time, made him so miserable he doesn't even care that he's been throwing up his own blood. And that is unacceptable.'

Suddenly, Greg's face crumbled and I watched as he dropped his head in his hands and leant against the wall. 'I know.' He whispered 'And God help me, I knew I was doing too.' And just as suddenly as the tears had come, they stopped. He straightened his back and looked me dead in the eye. 'I'm going to see him John. Don't try to stop me.' And he walked straight past me into the ward.

I don't think I'll ever gain back my full respect for Gregory Lestrade. But I watched him sit by Mycroft's bed for three whole days and I watched him explain himself, accept Mycroft's tears and the coldness and then watched him pull the man into his arms and tell him how much he loves him.

I don't think he needs my respect.

**AN: My sense of humour seems to be having a malfunction. Maybe if you review the next update won't be so miserable ;)**


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